Archive of Our Own

Part 1: Derek

Hotch had been avoiding it for nearly a week.

He knew why it had to happen—he’d signed the forms himself, made it official, told the team they needed to do it. But the truth sat like lead in his stomach:

They weren’t ready.

He wasn’t ready either, if he were being honest.

The last seventy-two hours had been filled with nothing but motion. Reports. Logistics. Paperwork. Anything that didn’t force him to think about the empty desk down below.

And now, for the next few days, one by one, he’d have to sit across from each of them—and listen to them talk about Emily.

When Morgan’s name was the first on the list, he’d almost rescheduled. Almost. But he couldn’t. Hotch never asked the team to do anything he wouldn’t do himself, but this time, he had to ask that. This was part of their recovery protocol. It was either this, or making them talk externally when Strauss inevitably forced that upon them, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let them go through that if he could avoid it.

Hotch didn’t look up right away when Morgan came in—he didn’t have to. He could feel the tension the second the door shut; a quiet defiance filled the air between them. Morgan hesitated for a moment before crossing the room to the couch. He made the judgment call Hotch wanted him there based on how he wasn’t behind his desk as he usually was. Hotch had clearly strategically planned for them to talk about this less like colleagues and simply as people who had lost a friend.

“So I came in here to do what?” Morgan finally asked, breaking the silence. “Talk about losing Emily?”

Hotch said nothing. Just met his eyes.

Morgan sighed, the sound caught somewhere between frustration and disbelief. “Did Strauss put you up to this?”

“The assessment’s routine,” Hotch replied evenly, though his voice was quiet. “I asked her to let me do it rather than bring in somebody from the outside.”

Morgan gave a low, humorless laugh. “So, let me guess. It’s about the five stages of grief. You want to figure out where we all are.” His tone turned sharp, almost sarcastic.

Hotch didn’t contradict that.

“All right. Denial,” Morgan started. “I’m fine, this can’t be happening to me. Well, it didn’t happen to me, did it? So that rules that out.”

Hotch said nothing—just kept eye contact as he let Morgan talk. Hotch knew Morgan was deflecting, and Hotch let him. He knew Derek would be one of the hardest to assess, which was why Hotch had wanted to check in with him first. He was the last one to be with Emily, holding her as she was dying in his arms. Hotch knew Morgan well enough to know he was hiding an immeasurable amount of guilt and regret behind his words.

He just needed to get Derek to say it.

“What else is there?” Morgan continued, counting off on his fingers. “Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. Well, obviously, I haven’t accepted it, otherwise I wouldn’t be in here. So where does that leave me?”

Hotch’s gaze softened. “Angry,” he said quietly.

Morgan stilled, the fight leaving him for half a second. “Angry…” he repeated quietly. Then he nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered.

Hotch saw a momentary flash of deep sorrow in his eyes before it disappeared almost as quickly as it came.

“Sometimes I feel like I want to quit my job and spend my time chasing down the son of a bitch who killed Emily,” Morgan admitted. “You’re damn right, I’m angry.”

The confession hung heavy in the air. For a man like Morgan, admitting that was almost worse than the anger itself. He looked down, exhaling slowly.

“Sixty seconds,” he muttered. “If I had just gotten there sixty seconds earlier, Emily might still be alive.”

There it is, Hotch thought to himself.

Still, hearing Morgan admit it pulled something tight in his chest. He knew that calculation. He had done it himself, again and again and again…

“Derek,” he said softly, “you know that you did everything you could.”

“Yeah, I know,” Morgan shot back, fast and defensive. “We all did everything we could—what, is that supposed to make me feel better?”

No, Hotch thought. It’s just the truth.

“You protected each other for years,” Hotch opted for instead. “Don’t expect this to go away anytime soon.”

“This what? This what, this guilt?” Morgan questioned angrily.

The office went quiet.

“Just because you were the last one there doesn’t mean you could affect the outcome,” Hotch said carefully. “We… all wish we had that kind of control.”

Morgan stood abruptly, pacing the room. For a moment, Hotch thought he’d walk out, but he didn’t. He stopped near the door, ran a hand over his face, and turned back.

“So what do we do, we just chalk it up to fate? That I can’t blame anybody, what, that this is the will of God?”

Hotch knew Morgan wasn’t angry at him- at least, not yet. This was just his emotions finally spilling out. As much as it pained Hotch to witness, this was the breakthrough he wanted to achieve.

“No, I do blame somebody,” Morgan vented as he came back over towards the couch. “I blame Doyle.”

Morgan sighed as he sat back down. For a long minute, he didn't speak. Hotch let him be.

“Hotch, what am I supposed to do?” Morgan asked. His voice wavered slightly, and he cleared his throat. “I lost my friend. I lost my friend right in front of me. And I’m supposed to go on like nothing ever happened?”

“I know it’s hard,” Hotch said softly. “But this is why we’ve got each other.”

Morgan let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, we’ve got each other, right? We, uh…” Morgan cut himself off again. Hotch thought he saw tears starting to form behind Morgan’s eyes as he turned his head away.

“We come in here and talk to you,” Morgan continued once he got his bearings. “Where do you go? Where are you with all of this?”

The question landed like a stone. Hotch hesitated in answering. What could he possibly say that would make any of this right?

“Same as you. Wishing she were here,” he finally answered cryptically.

For once, Morgan didn’t have a comeback.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt heavier than before, too thick with everything neither one of them could fix.

Hotch drew in a slow breath.

“I know you don’t want to hear me say it, Derek, but this is going to take time.”

Morgan looked at him for a moment longer, the fire gone, and exhaustion left behind. “She’d kick our asses if she saw us like this, over her,” he muttered, a ghost of a smile breaking through.

Hotch exhaled, the faintest hint of a sad smile touching his face. “She would.”

Morgan stood up again, ran a hand over his head, and let out one last shaky breath. Hotch saw him turn towards the door, as if testing his ability to escape Hotch’s interrogation.

“One more thing,” Hotch remembered as he stood and crossed the room to his desk. He grabbed a stapled packet he’d kept stashed away in the corner for a few days. He handed it over to Morgan, who took one glance down at it before snapping his head back up, a mix of hurt and exasperation, and possibly a tinge of gratitude, shining in his eyes.

“Are you serious, man?”

“Yes. Pick a program by the end of the week. Strauss wants an update on Monday.”

Morgan let himself out of Hotch’s office, glancing down at the papers as he did so, leaving Hotch alone with the silence of his thoughts.

Hotch stared at the door long after Morgan had closed it behind him before returning to his desk. He leaned back in his chair, exhaled slowly, and pinched the bridge of his nose. At least he’d gotten one of the hardest assessments out of the way.

One down, three to go.

Penelope was next. He could already feel the ache building in his chest just thinking about it. She was the heart of their team—their laughter, their color, their warmth that balanced the darkness they waded through every day.

And now, he was going to have to ask her to sit in this room and talk about Emily.

Then there was Reid. God, Reid. Hotch already knew he wasn’t going to be easy. The kid wore grief like his own skin: it seeped into everything he said, everything he touched. And lately, Hotch noticed how quiet he’d been. A quiet Reid was a worrisome Reid.

He told himself he was doing the right thing, helping them heal, that structure was better than avoidance. But part of him wondered if this was just punishment for all of them.

And yet, even through the guilt, a flicker of relief surfaced when he thought of the end of the week.

He’d talk to JJ after the rest of the team assessments. At least with her, he wouldn’t have to lie.

In some cynical, almost selfish way, he was looking forward to talking to someone who knew that Emily was alive, hiding halfway across the world, knowing they were both carrying the dangers of that secret.

Hotch sighed quietly, staring out the office window toward the bullpen. Down below, he could see the team working, or at least pretending to. They were all fragile, balancing on the edge of grief, exhaustion, shock, and the thoughts in their own heads over everything that had happened.

He straightened his tie, set his expression back into something relatively neutral, and reached for the next file on his desk.

Tomorrow, he’d have Garcia.

He wasn’t sure who this was going to hurt more—her, or him.

Part 2: Penelope

Garcia hesitated at the door longer than Morgan had. Her knuckles hovered just above the glass for a moment before she finally knocked with two light taps that barely made a sound.

“Come in,” Hotch said softly.

Garcia opened the door and slipped inside, clutching a bright pink cardigan against her chest like a shield.

“I get it,” she said before he could speak, words tumbling out too fast. “We’re a family, and it’s important that families talk, and holding it in will just make this sick, sad feeling of awfulness more awful… right?”

Hotch met her eyes as she sat down, and for a moment, he saw the hope in them. A small, flickering desperation for him to agree, for some type of validation. It hurt some part of him that even now, in these circumstances, she constantly felt the need to seek out his approval.

How was he supposed to tell her there was no ‘correct’ way to grieve?

“Internalizing does make it worse, yes,” he settled on gently with a slight upturn of his lips.

Garcia nodded, swallowing hard. “Okay. I’ll—I’ll talk, but I don’t want to talk about her being gone. Can I talk about how she made me smile?”

Hotch’s throat tightened. “Of course.”

What else was he supposed to say?

Garcia exhaled shakily, like that was the first safe permission she’d had in days. “Good, because she did, you know. Every single day. Even when she was being all stoic, pretending she didn’t have a sense of humor. She totally did.”

Hotch almost smiled, the memory flickering through him like sunlight through glass.

“She calls- called- me, ‘PG’ lately whenever she had to run something by me,” Garcia continued, her voice trembling between laughter and tears. “Told me it stood for ‘Password Genius’ from that case we were working back in September—and I told her she couldn’t just make up titles like that, cause being a genius is Reid’s title, anyway—and she said, ‘Why not? You earned it.’ And then there was this one time she brought me this tiny chocolate bar. She said it was for ‘services rendered’, and I—”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

Hotch stayed quiet, letting her have room to breathe. He knew she didn’t need answers like Morgan did. She needed to be heard.

“It’s so hard,” Garcia whispered after a long pause. “To realize that she’s not—she’ll never—”

Her hands twisted frantically around her cardigan, and before she could stop it, a sob escaped her.

Hotch was out of his chair before he realized it, then hesitated. He didn’t want to crowd her; he wanted to give her a choice. And no matter how much resentment he felt for what this secret burden was doing to the rest of them, he realized that in these extenuating circumstances, he didn’t really know the boundaries.

He settled on crossing to his desk and handing Garcia the tissue box from it as a compromise to his initial intentions.

Hotch could tell she was trying to stop crying, which was making the crying worse. She kept fumbling for tissues and apologizing between hiccups.

“Sorry, sir—oh God— I’m so sorry— I know this isn’t what you signed up for.”

Hotch shook his head faintly. “Penelope, this is exactly what I signed up for,” he assured quietly.

Garcia tried to laugh through the tears she was frantically trying to wipe away. “I know you don’t really do… crying. We go to JJ for that…”

Hotch forced a smile for her.

“I make exceptions.”

That only made Garcia harder, covering her face with her hands. Her breath hitched; it was like permission breaking a dam. She pressed the tissue to her face, crying loudly now. Hotch stayed across from her, hands loosely folded, every instinct telling him to help and knowing that he already was by not saying more.

“It’s alright to let it out here,” Hotch reassured her, his voice low. “I know how difficult this is.”

That earned a small, broken smile from Garcia. She wiped at her eyes again, sniffed, and whispered, “I just miss her.”

Hotch nodded slowly, his own voice quiet when he answered. “We all do.”

I’m so sorry, Penelope.

Hotch let the silence stretch for a long while, broken by Garcia’s tapering tears as she began to calm herself down. Hotch didn’t know if a few minutes had passed or an hour, but eventually, after Garcia took a few sips from the glass of water he’d handed her, she found her voice again.

“You really think we’ll be okay?”

Hotch looked up slowly from where he’d been staring at the floor, meeting her puffy red eyes. He hesitated just long enough to let a little honesty show.

“Not for a while,” he admitted. “But… eventually.”

Garcia nodded slowly, like she wanted to believe him. “Okay. Eventually.”

When Hotch was finally able to walk her out with a hand hovering at her back, she hesitated at the door.

“Thank you, sir,” she whispered.

Hotch understood what she meant- she hadn’t felt like she’d had permission in days to properly grieve over Emily. Probably not since the funeral.

He nodded once. “You’re welcome, Penelope.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Suddenly, Hotch was back with nothing but his thoughts for company again.

He leaned against his desk for a moment, closing his eyes. He made a promise to be there for all of them, but he wasn’t sure how much of himself he had left to hold together before the next one.

Reid.

He’d need every ounce of strength he had tomorrow for that kid’s assessment.

Part 3: Spencer

The next morning’s weather mirrored how Hotch thought Reid’s assessment was going to go: cloudy and rainy.

It was already past ten-thirty by the time Hotch finally pulled Reid’s file out. He couldn’t even lie to himself—he was procrastinating on this one.

Reid had always felt too much, thought too much—every loss hit him like it was personal, because to him, it was. Hotch could already see it: Reid sitting in that chair, logic unraveling faster than he could compartmentalize it. He’d try to rationalize grief, to make it make sense, but it never would. And Hotch would have to watch him break while pretending he didn’t know that the woman they were mourning wasn’t gone at all.

He’d have to lie to yet another person who trusted him completely.

Hotch sighed, rubbing his temples.

Two down, two to go. Halfway there.

Hotch knew Rossi wouldn’t be difficult. He’d seen more than all of them. Age gave him perspective, the kind that dulled the sharpest edges of pain. Dave would come in, talk, maybe offer a dry remark or two, and leave Hotch with a glass of scotch and a shoulder squeeze.

But Reid…

Hotch closed Reid’s file sharply, the sound of the folder snapping shut echoing like a kind of finality. He wasn’t sure he could do this one without something in him breaking.

When Hotch finally signaled for Reid to come up to his office, Reid slipped in without a word. He stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment before sitting on the edge of the couch, twisting his hands together.

Hotch watched him carefully. Reid was staring down at his hands, not attempting eye contact, and making no attempt to be the first one to start this conversation. It was just that eerie quiet that Hotch had been concerned about since the funeral. Reid being quiet was never a good thing.

Alright. This is how we’re going to do this. As long as he talks… eventually.

Reid’s voice, when it came, was quiet and distant. Hotch thought he already sounded on the verge of tears.

“The last time I was on a couch like this was when my father left,” Reid confessed, his raw voice barely audible. “They all thought I needed to talk, but developmentally, I wasn’t guided by conscious thought, I… could only reveal what my mother and teachers told me was acceptable.”

Hotch studied him for a moment, recognizing the pattern instantly. It was the same technique he had seen in Morgan: deflection. Familiar, comfortable ground.

He could work with that.

“You told them exactly what you knew they wanted to hear,” Hotch said quietly, trying to find the angle Reid was going for.

Reid didn’t say anything. His eyes stayed fixed on his hands.

“You don’t have to do that here,” Hotch added gently, trying to encourage Reid to open up.

That hit something. Reid’s fingers stopped fidgeting. His voice trembled slightly when he spoke again.

“It’s just not fair that she’s gone.”

Hotch felt the air leave his lungs. Reid looked up just for a moment, and the raw look in his eyes punctured Hotch right in the chest.

“It’s like… if we can’t keep each other safe, then why are we doing any of this?” Reid admitted, tearing his eyes away and focusing back on his hands.

Hotch didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He just sat with him in the silence—no reprimand to give, no logic, no leadership tone. Just… quiet understanding.

Reid waited, maybe expecting to be corrected, maybe even wanting to be. When Hotch stayed silent, he looked up again.

“Sometimes I think maybe…” His voice faltered. “Maybe Gideon was right, you know? Maybe… maybe it’s just not worth it.”

God, Spencer…

Hotch wanted to tell him that Gideon was wrong, that Emily’s sacrifice still meant something, that their work still mattered, but all he could see was a young man barely holding himself together, grief clinging to his every word.

Hotch leaned forward slightly in an attempt to meet Reid’s eyes, which had averted back down, and kept his voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you mean that?” Hotch asked gently. Reid’s breath hitched.

“I don’t know.”

Hotch could see Reid’s composure slipping. His trembling hands, the tightness in his jaw, and the way his shoulders shook were starting to give him away.

“It’s alright to question it,” Hotch said quietly. “Of course it’s not fair… what happened to Emily…”

Reid blinked hard, one tear slipping free before he could stop it. He wiped at it fast, shaking his head, mumbling something that sounded like ‘sorry.’

Hotch sighed. “Don’t apologize. Not for this.”

With that gentle permission, Reid’s facade gave out, and with it, the tears finally fell, unlocking the grief that had been coiled too tightly around his heart.

Hotch stayed right where he was, close enough to steady him if he needed it, but far enough to let him find his own footing again.

Hotch felt something inside him splinter as he watched Reid start crying, because he had the one truth that could heal all of them.

But he knew he couldn’t tell Reid the truth.

He couldn’t give him the one thing that would actually make this better.

All he could do was sit here and listen to him.

Reid wiped at his eyes again, harder this time, like he could just will the tears to stop. But the harder he tried, the worse it got, every shaky breath feeding another, just like Garcia. Hotch watched the way Reid’s fingers trembled against his knee, tapping in uneven bursts.

“Reid,” Hotch said softly.

Reid shook his head and brought his hands together again, one pinching at the other and turning his knuckles white, like if he could just focus on the pressure, it might drown out everything else.

Hotch knew Reid was unintentionally stimming. He’d seen it before—the restless fidgeting, the sharp little movements that meant Reid was overwhelmed and trying to find control in the smallest things he could. And right now, that seemed to be his hands.

“Hey,” Hotch murmured, low and even. “Easy. It’s alright.”

Reid shook his head again, frustrated now. “No, it’s not— it’s never going to be alright, now that she’s— how can you even say that?— I—”

“You’re right,” Hotch’s voice cut through gently, enough to pull Reid’s eyes up for a second. “You’re right. I’m sorry. We’re all… going to feel this for a while.”

Reid took a breath, but it came out shaky and uneven. Hotch noticed his hand was beginning to turn red from the way he was grasping at it.

He stood up and crossed to his desk, pulling open a side drawer and rummaging through without any sort of explanation. After a minute, he pulled out a small handheld metal puzzle.

It was no secret he’d been stashing some handheld logic fidgets discreetly throughout the office, for some time now, mainly for Reid and Garcia. But he’d seen the others using them, too. They all benefited from tactile grounding every once in a while. Having a physical object to release stress was a good way to break anxiety-inducing habits before they started.

He thought back to the way Emily would pick at her fingernails during a bad case that rubbed her the wrong way. As soon as the memory slipped in, he shook his head to clear it out. Reid needed him focused right now. Hotch turned over the cool metal in his hand once before crossing the room and placing it in front of Reid on the table between them.

“Here,” he offered quietly.

Reid blinked at it, confused, then reached for it hesitantly. The moment his fingers wrapped around the cool metal, some of the shaking in his hands started to settle. He twisted it a couple of times, the tactile physicality of the object clearly helping, as Hotch hoped it would.

Hotch waited until Reid’s breathing evened out before speaking again.

“Better?”

Reid nodded faintly, still staring at the puzzle. “A little.”

“Good,” Hotch leaned back slightly, giving him space again. “I know… with the way your mind works,” Hotch said carefully. “That you want this… feeling to have an end date. Put it into some type of formula that you can work out. But I think you just have to let yourself feel it.”

Reid swallowed hard, eyes glassy again but calmer now. “It hurts.”

Hotch’s voice softened. “I know.”

They sat there in the quiet, the only sound being the metal pieces clicking between Reid’s hands.

When Reid spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Hotch interrupted softly. He paused, then added, gentler, “Why don’t you go down to Garcia’s office for a while? I think she could use some company.”

Reid hesitated, like he wanted to argue, but didn’t have the energy.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

Reid stood, and Hotch watched him pocket the puzzle. For a second, Reid looked like he wanted to say something else, but he just gave a small nod as Hotch led him toward the door.

Hotch nodded back, quiet and steady. “You did fine, Reid.”

The faintest flicker of something—relief, maybe, Hotch thought—crossed Reid’s face before he slipped out the door.

The moment the door clicked shut behind Reid, Hotch’s shoulders sank. He leaned forward, elbows on his desk, pressing his palms over his face. The silence in the office returned, suffocating him.

Reid’s words echoed back in his head:

If we can’t keep each other safe, then why are we doing any of this?

Hotch didn’t have an answer. Not one he could give, anyway.

He knew why Emily’s death had to stay a secret—why her identity needed to be protected, why only he and JJ could carry that truth. It was the only way to keep her safe, to keep all of them safe. The enemy they’d faced didn’t relent easily, and one mistake could undo everything.

But that logic didn’t make it easier to sit across from his team while they grieved, believing they’d lost a friend and a teammate forever. He’d told himself that keeping the secret was an act of leadership. Protection. Duty. But sitting there, listening to the echoes of Reid’s voice, it just felt cruel.

Hotch took a slow breath, trying to collect himself. He had to.

Rossi would be next. Thank God for that.

Hotch pushed the next folder toward himself, the motion mechanical.

You’d better be safe out there, Emily. Because they can’t lose you twice.

***

Garcia’s office was glowing, as always, colored in warm pinks, soft blues, and twinkling fairy lights. It looked nothing like the rest of Quantico, and that was exactly why Hotch had sent Reid there.

Reid lingered in the doorway. Garcia was typing something, her headphones perched slightly askew. She turned at his movement in her peripheral vision and froze when she saw him.

“Oh, my sweet genius,” she said, her soft voice tinged with worry when she saw Reid’s red eyes. “Did you just talk to Hotch about…?”

Reid gave a small nod. “Yeah,” his voice was still rough from crying. “He said… you might need company.”

“Oh, that man. He’s not wrong, I’ll always take a junior g-man in my presence,” she pushed her chair back and patted the seat beside her. “Come here, boy wonder. I’ve got sugar, caffeine, and zero judgment.”

Reid smiled faintly and crossed the room. He sat down beside her, and for a moment, the hum of her monitors filled the air, a gentle white noise.

Garcia glanced at him, her expression softening. “Rough one?”

Reid gave a humorless laugh. “You could say that.”

He pulled the metal puzzle out from his pocket and twisted it around in his hand a few times.

Garcia noticed immediately. “Ooooh, he gave you one of his desk puzzles! I’ve hoarded, like, five,” she said, pointing absentmindedly at her desk. Indeed, a bunch of similar tiny contraptions were clustered in the corner.

Reid almost smiled. “He said it might help.”

“Does it?” she asked.

“A little,” he admitted softly.

Garcia reached over and put her hand over his. Reid’s eyes filled again, and he blinked fast, trying to keep the tears down.

“I just keep thinking about her,” Reid admitted quietly.

“Me too, honey.”

Garcia leaned her head lightly against his shoulder. “We’re all sad, you know. And we will be for a while.”

“I know,” Reid whispered. “I know.”

They sat like that for a while, surrounded by the glow of Garcia’s monitors and the quiet buzz of machines. The world outside kept turning, but in Garcia’s office, they were safe in their sorrow with each other.

Part 4: Dave

It was late in the evening by the time Hotch got to Rossi. The bullpen lights had dimmed, and he’d seen most of the team file out over the hours in his peripheral. When he noticed the lights still on in Dave’s office, he figured there was no point waiting till tomorrow.

He’d just get it over with.

He’d finished writing up Morgan’s, Garcia’s, and Reid’s assessments, producing pages of clinical observations that hid the emotional wreckage underneath. They were the kind of reports Strauss would want to see, precise and slightly detached in order to pass for clinical. The kind of reports that cost him a little more of his soul each time he signed one.

When Rossi appeared in his office doorway, Hotch wasn’t surprised.

“You know,” Rossi said, holding up a glass, “there are benefits to meeting after hours.”

Hotch closed the file in front of him and gave Rossi a slightly exasperated, but mostly tired, glare. “You’re not even pretending to take this seriously, are you?”

“Oh, I’m taking it very seriously,” Rossi said, pouring a second glass and handing it to Hotch. “I just happen to believe therapy goes better with scotch.”

Hotch huffed out a quiet laugh despite himself and took the glass. “You know everyone’s feeling it,” he said, coming around his desk and sitting down across from Rossi. “But nobody wants to talk about it.”

“It’s too soon, Aaron,” Rossi said gently. “You know that better than anyone.”

Hotch looked down at his glass as a flicker of remorse flooded through him at the mention of his late wife.

“And… doesn’t Strauss usually run these assessments?” Rossi asked as an afterthought.

“There was no way that was going to happen,” Hotch deadpanned with a slight upturn of his lips.

Rossi chuckled. “Yeah. Didn’t think so.”

Rossi raised his glass to show his appreciation for overriding mandatory counseling for the team.

“I also know,” Rossi said finally, “that you grieve privately.”

Hotch hid his reaction by taking a slow drink. The scotch burned, but it gave him a second to breathe.

“And you’ve been through more than any of us in a very short time,” Rossi pressed, watching him carefully. “How’re you holding up, Aaron?”

Hotch cradled the scotch glass in his hand, swirling it just enough to create a gentle vortex in the remaining liquid.

“I’m alright,” he murmured. “I think it’s… an ongoing process.”

Rossi continued to stare at him, and in turn, Hotch continued to stare at the glass. Before he could push it away, a tiny, nagging voice in the back of his head piped up,

Does Dave know? No, he can’t know, there’s no possible way… it’s literally impossible…

Hotch pushed the thought away almost as quickly as it came.

He will know something’s going on if you keep dodging him. Keep it together. Change tactics. Anything.

Finally glancing up at Rossi, Hotch almost smiled.

“This is not my assessment, Dave,” he reminded gently. “I’m supposed to be asking how you’re doing.”

Rossi leaned back, swirling his glass with a small grin. “Well, if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that I’m more married to this team than I ever was to three ex-wives.”

That earned a quiet laugh from Hotch. “It’s been a hard year,” he confessed quietly.

Rossi’s expression softened. “Yeah,” he agreed softly. “It has. But we’ll get through it. We always do.”

They let the silence fill the room comfortably, the clink of ice against the two glasses the only sound between them.

Rossi lifted his glass. “To Emily and Haley,” he honored.

Hotch stared at him for a long second, his eyes soft but heavy, the burden of both those names lying heavily on his heart.

Finally, he sighed and raised his own glass, draining it along with Dave.

***

It was nearing midnight when Hotch closed Rossi’s file. He rubbed his eyes, sighing as he pushed all four folders to the corner of his desk, ready to bring them to Strauss’s office before he left for the night.

It was over. Everyone’s assessments completed, every team member accounted for.

Four down, zero to go.

Well, actually… one more to go.

He’d get to her later.

He stood, buttoned his jacket, and began his usual end-of-shift routine he’d taken upon himself to implement recently, which included a quiet sweep of the building to make sure his team had gone home. He’d caught many of them in the office overnight after hard cases, and he made it a priority to make sure all of them left before he did, given recent events.

Morgan’s desk was empty. Reid’s was, too.

Good, Hotch thought gratefully. He’d been worried about those two the most.

Down the hall, the faint glow of monitors still spilled from Garcia’s office. When he got closer, he could hear quiet laughter from the partially opened door.

Hotch stopped just short of the entrance, peaking inside with the intent of telling Garcia to go home, when he saw Garcia and Reid sitting side by side, sharing a bag of chips, cycling through cat videos on Garcia’s computer.

Hotch could tell, even with what little he could see from his angle, that Garcia hadn’t been crying, thank goodness. Even Reid looked calmer than he had all week. His eyes were still tinged with red, and he looked tired, but at least he was smiling.

It almost made Hotch smile, too. He leaned against the doorframe and cleared his throat softly.

“I thought I told you two to go home at a normal hour.”

Garcia spun around, guilt flashing for half a second before she caught the warmth in his tone. “Sir! We were just—”

“Distracting ourselves,” Reid offered quietly as he turned towards him, clearly unbothered.

“Mm-hmm.” Hotch folded his arms, but the gentle look in his eyes betrayed him. “Please, go home.”

Garcia huffed, standing with mock indignation. “Fine. But I’m taking this one with me,” she claimed, pointing at Reid. “He’s not taking the metro past midnight by himself.”

Reid frowned slightly. “I’m completely capable—”

“Not the point,” Garcia retorted, already gathering her bag.

Hotch’s lips curved faintly. “Goodnight, both of you.”

They chorused their goodnights as he turned to leave. He could still hear them behind him down the hallway, Reid arguing half-heartedly against Garcia’s metro rule, and he made a mental note to thank Garcia in the morning by helping Reid exactly as he knew she would.

He wasn’t exactly lying when he’d told Reid earlier that Garcia had needed him, either—he knew they both needed a distraction. They both needed each other.

He flicked the lights off as he finally made it out of the building himself.

One more stop tonight, he reminded himself as he started the engine of his SUV and turned out of the parking lot, leaving the BAU behind him.

***

Leaving so late meant the night was quiet, with just the soft hum of the engine and the occasional glow of headlights passing in the opposite lane to grab his attention. So, admittedly, not much. Sometimes, he yearned for quiet nights on the way home, especially after hard cases, where he could give himself and his thoughts a luxurious half hour to breathe.

Tonight, the quiet just gave him too much space to think after the week he’d had.

He kept telling himself he’d done what he could. Morgan, Garcia, Reid, Rossi: they’d all been seen, heard, and assessed, but deep down, he knew it wasn’t enough.

He thought about Reid’s trembling hands, Garcia’s tears, Morgan’s guilt, and Rossi’s quiet understanding. And despite the guilt that lived in his chest since the beginning of the week, he still felt proud of them. They hadn’t given up. Even broken, they still reached for each other.

Hotch turned off the highway and onto the quieter suburban roads, the city lights fading in the rearview. The clock on his dashboard read 12:17 a.m.

He hoped it wasn’t too late.

A few minutes later, he realized he’d been worrying about the time for nothing—JJ’s porch light was still on when he pulled up.

Hotch cut the engine and glanced towards the house. He could see her silhouette through the window. He let out a slow breath, resting his hand on the steering wheel for a moment.

He didn’t know exactly what he’d say to her yet, but maybe that was alright. Maybe they’d just sit for a while, talk quietly, and remind themselves why they were doing this—why the secret had to stay, why Emily’s safety mattered more than anything else.

They had to check up on each other, Hotch reasoned, because if either of them slipped, everything they’d fought for would crumble into pieces.

Hotch opened the car door, the cool night air hitting him as he stepped out. He adjusted his jacket, took one more steadying breath, and turned to walk up the steps.

***

JJ had been expecting him. She’d left the porch light on. When Hotch knocked softly, she was already at the door.

“Hey,” she greeted quietly.

“Hey.”

She motioned for him to come in, and he followed her into the kitchen where two mugs already sat on the counter, steam rising faintly from both.

They sat at the table, and Hotch nodded his thanks and took the mug she passed him. They both took a sip at the same time, and Hotch figured she didn’t know how to start this conversation any more than he did. But they needed to have it.

Finally, JJ broke the silence. “Emily contacted me yesterday,” she said softly, her hands wrapped around the warm mug. “Said she’s still off the grid. No one’s gotten in touch with her other than the State Department agents, her Interpol people, and us. She’s stationed in Paris for the time being.”

Hotch nodded slowly. “Good.” Then, after a pause, quieter, “But maybe not good enough.”

JJ’s lips curved in that sad, understanding way. “Yeah. I know.”

“Listen, JJ—”

Before he could finish, JJ interrupted quickly, her words in a rush like she had been waiting to tell him something for days.

“He keeps coming to my house, Aaron.”

Hotch was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed softly, running a hand over his face. He didn’t need to ask who he was. The pain in her voice told him everything.

Reid.

"Every night," JJ emphasized. "He just… sits with me. Sometimes he talks, sometimes he doesn't. Actually, this is the first night he hasn’t been here…”

The kitchen suddenly felt smaller. Hotch set his mug down carefully, the small sound of ceramic on wood too loud in the quiet.

"How long does he stay?" he asked gently.

"It depends. Sometimes just an hour, sometimes more." JJ stared at her hands. "Last week, he fell asleep on the couch. I didn’t have the heart to wake him up," Her voice dropped. "I couldn't."

Hotch closed his eyes for a brief second, the guilt flooding back. Reid’s grief had already filled every corner of his day, and hearing that it followed JJ home at night was another quiet ache added to his list of penitences.

"He sat in my office today and told me he doesn't know if any of this is worth it anymore." Hotch told her quietly. "And I sat there and told him it was going to be okay. Knowing what we know."

JJ looked up at him, her expression somewhere between tired and alarmed.

"Aaron—"

"I know," Hotch amended quickly, raising a hand. "I know why it has to be this way. I know the alternative is worse, but… “ he trailed off, clearing his throat. "That doesn't make it easier to watch them think they’ve lost her.”

JJ stayed quiet, raising her mug to her lips again. Hotch got a good look at her by strategically shifting a few inches to catch her in the light better.

The dark shadows under her eyes told him how worn thin she was. She was doing exactly what he was doing: keeping it together for everyone else, carrying the truth like a stone in her pocket, every single day.

The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere on the counter behind them, the baby monitor crackled softly and went quiet again.

"Jennifer," The use of her full name made her look up. "How are you doing?"

She opened her mouth immediately, the reflexive ‘I'm fine’ response already forming, before calculating instantly that Hotch wouldn’t accept that as an answer. For a moment, she just looked at him, and something in her expression shifted.

"I'm tired, Aaron," she admitted quietly. "I'm tired of watching everyone hurting.”

"I know," Hotch said quietly. “And I’m sorry.”

"I wish—" JJ wiped quickly at the corner of one eye. "God, I wish—I would give anything to just tell them Emily’s okay…”

“JJ, we can’t,” Hotch whispered, but his eyes gave away the sorrow he felt at the impossibility of the whole situation.

“I know,” JJ sighed, picking up her mug again and taking a long sip to give herself a minute.

When she put her mug back down, her voice was suddenly brighter. “How’d the other assessments go this week? You finished everyone, right?”

Hotch gave her a look that said, ‘nice try.’

“You’re not getting out of this that easily,” he reprimanded lightly.

JJ looked away sheepishly, a tired smile tugging at her lips. “Didn’t think so.”

“I know this is far from easy,” Hotch acknowledged quietly. “And you’ve got Reid on your plate now, too. Why didn’t you mention him to me sooner?”

JJ stared at the table. “I didn’t know how to,” she admitted. “He’s hurting, Aaron. Telling someone else about it felt like breaking some sort of trust between us. But I don’t know what else I can do. He shows up and… I can’t send him away.”

Hotch nodded slowly. “We’ll figure out what to do about Reid. For now, you’ve been doing exactly what he needs. We’ll get him through this.”

“But he’s getting worse,” JJ said softly. “He’s trying, but I can tell. And you must have seen how he was today.”

Hotch nodded. “Yeah. I saw.” He paused, the thought forming carefully before he let it out. “Do you think I should take his gun for a couple of weeks?” He hated that he was only half-joking.

JJ nearly choked on her tea. “Aaron,” she said, a tired laugh slipping out despite the heavy mood in the room. “That kid will fight you tooth and nail to keep that thing. You know how hard he worked to earn it.”

“I know,” Hotch sighed. “I just… I don’t want him carrying it when he’s this fragile.”

“I get it,” JJ said gently. “But if you do it for Reid, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to do it for everyone. Make it a protocol thing. That way, he won’t feel singled out.”

Hotch considered it. “You might be right. I don’t want him feeling like I don’t trust him.”

Hotch picked up his mug again, and the silence crept back in between them. The only sound was the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall, and another crackle on the baby monitor.

Finally, Hotch said, “I paired Reid with Garcia after his assessment today.”

JJ smiled sadly. “You did?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, a hint of warmth softening his voice. “I figured they both needed a little bit of light. It worked. By the time I checked in on them, they were laughing about cat videos. They left the office together. That explains why he didn’t come to your place tonight.”

JJ’s eyes softened, and Hotch pretended not to hear her sniffle.

“That’s good,” JJ whispered. “Penelope’s good for him. She reminds him that there’s still joy in the world.”

“She reminds all of us,” Hotch admitted softly. JJ’s gaze drifted toward the window, thoughtful.

“Maybe that’s the key,” she suggested. “Keep pairing them up in little ways. Let Reid have people around him who’ll help him talk, let Morgan go to Garcia’s office next, give Rossi a bottle of wine, I don’t know…”

Hotch smiled faintly. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised.

JJ reached across the table and rested her hand briefly over his. “You’re doing good with them, Aaron.”

Hotch met her eyes, tired but grateful. “We both are.”

JJ’s smile wavered, but she nodded.

They both stood when the conversation began to wind down. JJ moved first, circling the table and stopping in front of him. For a second, neither of them spoke. Then she simply stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

Hotch stiffened for half a second, an instinctive reflex, before something in him simply gave way. His arms came around her, and he let himself close his eyes for a second.

They stood there for a long time, just two people experiencing shared exhaustion, and a different, more quiet kind of grief.

"For what it's worth," JJ added quietly, "I think it's okay that this doesn't feel like the right thing.”

“It’s hard.”

“Yeah. It is.”

When they finally stepped back, JJ walked him to the door, and Hotch straightened his jacket automatically, a gesture that almost made her laugh.

"Some things never change," she murmured. Her arms folded against the cool air that slipped in when Hotch cracked the door open.

“Drive safe,” JJ whispered.

Hotch nodded, his voice soft. “You get some sleep. Take care of yourself through all this.”

Hotch hesitated at the door, giving her one last look, a silent acknowledgment that they were in this together, before stepping out into the cool night air.

***

The roads were practically bare now, washed in the pale yellow of streetlights. The quiet was back, and with it, Hotch’s mind drifted.

They’d made it through the week. Barely, but they had.

Emily’s absence hung in the air even now, though he knew, and JJ knew, that she was out there somewhere. Safe, hidden, and most importantly, alive.

He turned onto his street, headlights sweeping across the familiar outline of his apartment.

As he parked and shut off the engine, he let himself exhale, slow and unguarded. He sat for another minute, his hands resting on the steering wheel.

We’ll get through this. All of us.

And somewhere, half a world away, he hoped Emily knew it, too.

***

Two Weeks Later

The days passed by in fragments. Cases trickled back in, paperwork piled up again, and somehow the rhythm of the BAU began to feel normal again. Well, almost.

Hotch was in his office late, as usual, finishing a report when his phone buzzed. He didn’t recognize the number that flashed across the screen, which wasn’t unusual, but given the hour, it was a little odd. He picked it up on the third ring.

“Hotchner.”

“Hey, Boss.”

Hotch closed his eyes as a wave of relief flooded through him.

That voice.

“Emily.”

There was a small laugh on the other end. “I figured you’d still be at the office,” she said.

“You figured right.”

“You sound tired.”

He smiled faintly. “So do you.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, then sighed. “Well, as fine as someone hiding in Paris can be. The coffee’s good, though.”

Hotch allowed himself a small, incredulous laugh. “That’s something, I suppose.”

Emily was quiet on the other end for a minute.

“How’s everyone?” she asked softly, her voice suddenly tight with all the things they couldn’t say over the phone.

Hotch hesitated. “They’re… holding up,” he said carefully. “Morgan’s angry. Garcia’s been crying. Reid’s struggling. Dave’s keeping me honest. JJ…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “JJ’s strong. Stronger than she should have to be.”

Emily went quiet again, and Hotch could almost picture her face at the same realization that he had come to days ago: maybe this was just too cruel. Maybe, just maybe, they could have found another way.

But it was too late now.

“You’re taking care of them?” she asked eventually.

“I’m trying.”

Emily let out a breath of relief. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Hotch leaned back in his chair, staring out at the bullpen lights flickering below. “You don’t need to thank me.”

“I do,” Emily countered softly. “You’re keeping them together. You’re keeping me safe. I just… I don’t know… I needed you to know I’m okay.”

Hotch swallowed hard, his voice rough when he finally spoke. “I appreciate that.”

Emily sighed. “I wish we could tell the—”

Hotch nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “I know,” he whispered. “Believe me, I know.”

Emily sighed.

“I’ll let you know when they transfer me into London,” she said. “Should only be a couple more days. I’m meeting with Clyde Easter to discuss possible locations for Doyle. Hopefully, if we find him…”

Emily trailed off, and Hotch knew what she had wanted to say. She wanted to come home.

“Keep me posted,” Hotch said wearily. “I’m being reassigned in a few weeks, so I’ll have—”

“Wait,” Emily interrupted, her voice raising an octave in confusion and defense. “What do you mean, reassigned, Hotch? Don’t tell me you’re leaving?”

Hotch sighed. He hadn’t meant to tell her; it just slipped out. He was planning on breaking the news to the team in a couple days.

“It’s… a temporary assignment,” he assured her carefully. “Strauss is downsizing the team. After everything that happened, she wants us separated for at least a few months.”

“What? What good is that going to do anyone, Hotch—?”

“I know,” he said again. “It’s not ideal. But Dave’ll be here. And Morgan. And I think she’s letting Garcia stay. I’m not sure about Reid yet.”

“But what about—”

“Emily,” the firm note in Hotch’s voice cut through Emily’s impending anger. “Listen,” he said, his voice softer now. “We’re all going to be fine. I promise.”

It was Emily’s turn to sigh again, and she didn’t say anything for a long time.

“I miss you,” she said finally. “All of you.”

Hotch felt the guilt in his chest rise to the surface again. “We miss you too,” he admitted softly.

“If this all works out, I’ll see you guys in less than a year, right?”

“That’s the goal.”

Hotch heard Emily suppress a yawn and glanced at his watch. It was 9:12pm in D.C, so it had to be past 3am for her

“Get some rest, alright?” Hotch told her gently. “Let me know when you’re in London.”

“I will,” Emily murmured tiredly. “Goodnight, Hotch.”

“Goodnight, Emily.”

The line clicked off, and the room was silent again. For once, the silence didn’t leave him spiraling in his thoughts. It didn’t hurt quite as much, knowing Emily was safe.

Hotch sat for a while longer, letting the weight of her voice settle over him. Then he picked up his pen, finished his report, and turned off the light.

Tomorrow would come, like it always did. Their new normal, without Emily. And God willing, on a hope and a prayer, she’d be coming back to them one day.