So, I really wanted to write a story for Prentiss's birthday, partly because it's also my birthday, and partly because she's turning forty (by my calculations). I went through so many, many different ideas until this one popped into my head and wrote itself. I have also been meaning to address some of the references they've made to her pre-BAU FBI career. Really, you've got to do something super special to be considered 'reckless' while you're on a desk job. And, I can't help but feel like the JJ-Prentiss-Hotch 'I compartmentalize better than most' conversation was the writers hinting to us about back story. I however, think they sort of forgot about that. So, this is me filling in that back story.

Thank you for reading, and thank you anyone who reviews.

This was not how Emily intended to spend her fortieth birthday-in a Chicago police station, reliving a night that happened 13 years ago. She was supposed to be at a bar with the team, knocking back drinks, and pretending she wasn't getting old. Not staring through the two-way glass into an interrogation room at a face she barely recognized, while the guys hung around her, shooting each other worried looks and wondering why she'd never told them this story.

It was in her damn personnel file, they could have found out; she wasn't hiding a thing. Alright, maybe a little, but they still could have found out. Seriously, none of them ever wondered how she'd gotten stuck on a desk job for ten very long, tedious years?

He was nineteen now, the baby face she remembered thinned and worn to that of a young man. But, he wasn't a happy nineteen. His hair had been allowed to grow midway down his ears, and hung in unstyled, almost greasy locks. He kept his head slightly bowed, eyes angled toward the table, and his back hunched, like he carried the weight of the world on his back. He was slight, only a thin layer of muscle keeping him from being classified as boney, and he wasn't tall. He looked like a kid that could be pushed around, and she knew now, that he had been.

Emily rubbed at a spot just above her left hip, and shot Morgan a warning look when she felt his eyes on her, studying the unconscious motion of her hand. Then a sigh, and she ripped her gaze away, turning to Hotch, and the plastic evidence bags in his hands. She took them without a word, and headed out of the observation room, past the Chicago cops shooting looks at her, wondering, almost untrusting looks, and she pushed open the door to interrogation.

He straightened up at seeing her, and something disturbingly like need passed in his hazel eyes, before it quickly disappeared. He relaxed a little when she sat down, brushed a few locks of hair from his still very young face.

"Do you know who I am, Cody?" She asked, voice soft. Not like an interrogator, more like a mother.

He nodded, leaned forward slightly.

"You wanted to talk to me," Emily told him, setting the evidence bags in front of him. Three, each containing a letter addressed to Agent Prentiss, each a cry for help. "You can talk to me now, Cody."

A sob escaped his throat, and his shoulders hunched again. He looked up at her then, his gaze intense, like she was salvation. It took all her self control not to run.

November 4, 1997

27 year-old Emily Prentiss waved goodbye to her partner, Jake, a man who was eight years her senior and never let her forget that she was a rookie and a woman to boot. They'd been working a string of child abductions the last three days, two kids last week (one found dead), and a third went missing yesterday morning. Their supervisor had just sent them home for some sleep, a shower and food that wasn't from a vending machine. Sleep and a shower she was looking forward to, the food could wait. Autopsy photos of 6 year-old boys tended to ruin a person's appetite.

Jake said she'd get used to it. She'd told him the day those photos stopped upsetting her, she was turning in her badge and gun. He'd actually looked impressed, like he didn't expect her to understand that already. Two years in the Bureau, one as his partner, and the man still underestimated her. But then, women, especially young women, were always underestimated in traditionally male fields. Her mother had made sure she knew that since birth.

It was late, and already dark as she drove through Chicago, hitting one of the less favorable neighborhoods on the way to her own, which frankly, wasn't in a much better neighborhood. Grad school was expensive, even after you're out. But, that's alright; you're supposed to spend your twenties in a crappy apartment, right?

That's when she saw it.

Driving past the warehouses that seemed like no one was ever around, a man with a little boy. The man had the little boy in his arms, so all she could see was his brown hair. That could be their missing kid, or it could be a father with his child. Emily drove another block, and stopped. Should she report it, and wait for back-up? Or should she check it out herself?

If it was their kidnapper and she went in herself, she might find herself in a bad situation without back-up. But, if she called it in, and it was just a guy with his kid, none of the guys she worked with would ever trust her opinion again. It was hard to get them to listen to her as is, though actually, Jake was getting better. Still, she didn't much care to be known as the girl who cried killer. Alright, she was going in.

Emily locked the car, and headed toward the warehouse, only pulling out her glock when she got close. The door was unlocked, which was a good indication that he didn't plan on spending long inside. She pulled the small flashlight from her belt, and held it against the barrel of her gun.

The door went open without so much as a creak, and she swallowed as swept the beam around, searching in the darkness. Too late.

Something was slammed down on the right side of her skull, and she went down hard. Her gun and flashlight flew out into the darkness, the flashlight spinning until the beam ironically landed on her. Her gun was lost to the darkness.

Emily put a hand against her skull and pushed to her feet, flipping around as she sensed someone near her back. He slammed into her, the child abductor she'd spent three days searching for, and she hit the ground with loud grunt. Her training kicked in, and she grappled for control, and quickly gained the upper-hand.

The throaty shriek erupted from her mouth almost the same time as the burning agony registered in mind. She quickly lost the upper-hand. Another yell. He pulled the knife from her side, just above her left hip. Probably the knife he'd used to kill freckle-faced Timothy Andrews. He rolled them, so she was on her back. Bad move for him.

She rolled onto something hard, metal, and blessedly familiar. He was straddling her, breathing heavily, the flashlight beam hitting the whites of his eyes, making them shine. In the time it took him to raise his arms and prepare to send that knife slamming down into her breastbone, Emily picked up her glock, and fired. One. Two. Three.

He fell on top of her, literal dead weight, and Emily had to push him off. She holstered her gun, and kicked the knife clear across the room, just in case. The flashlight in her hands, she was searching the darkness.

"Cody? Cody! Cody Hamilton, it's safe! I'm a police officer!" She called to the boy, figuring 'police officer' was more familiar to him than 'FBI agent'. Her body was suddenly hit with a flood of pain, the endorphin surge evening out, letting her know how badly she was hurt.

Her face contorted against the agony, in her side, in her head, and she almost fell to her knees, but then she saw a small figure curled up in the corner on the same wall as the door. Slow deliberate steps took her there, shooting pain traveling up her left side with every heavy step. When she finally reached the wall, she half fell into it, and slid down to the floor.

"Hi Cody." She pressed her lips together to ride out a wave of pain. "My name is Emily. I'm a police officer, I'm going to make sure you get back to your mommy and daddy." Emily unclipped her badge, and handed it to him, blood smearing over the gold eagle and shield from her fingers.

While he turned it over in his little fingers, she pulled out her cellphone, and dialed 911, reported her location, her badge number, and the need for an ME and EMTs. Then she called her supervisor, but the pain radiating from her side, and thudding inside her skull made it impossible to talk anymore. Cody, still clutching her badge, climbed into her lap, disturbing her wound, and forcing her to bite her lip to keep from screaming and terrifying him. She held an arm weakly around his little body, and stared into the dark, empty warehouse. It only took seconds for the dancing spots to become full blown darkness.

"I thought you were dead, back then, when your eyes closed." 19 year-old Cody studied her, like he was wondering if she was really the same person.

"So did I." At least, until she woke up in the hospital. "Gamble missed all my major organs, I wasn't even in the hospital that long."

It was a week, the first two days of which she was on so such heavy painkillers she barely knew her own name. It was on the second day, while she was in a morphine-induced haze that her supervisor and his supervisor came into her hospital room, and lectured her about her behavior. She had been reckless. She was almost killed. The boy could have been killed.

As soon as she was medically cleared for work, she was to report for her new assignment-a desk job in organized crime. She rode that particular desk until September 12, 2001, when someone ran a search of agents who were fluent in Arabic and had all their asses shipped direct to Washington to work in Counter-terrorism.

On her third day in the hospital, she'd barely remembered that conversation. Jake had to fill her in. For a good ten minutes all she could think was who the hell gave someone an ass-chewing when they were orbiting the moon on painkillers? Then it had hit her. He'd given her hand a squeeze and said it was too damn bad, he'd just gotten used to having a chick partner. Emily had taken it for what it was, his version of an 'I'm sorry you're getting dicked by the brass and I'll miss you'.

They'd taken her insecurity and interpreted it as hubris.

"You know your name wasn't in any news reports. I only know your last name, because my parents had me write you a get well card while you were in the hospital, and address it Agent Prentiss."

"I still have that card."

"Why?" He asked.

She sighed. "A reminder. That the scar I have is worth something." And, so was ten years of riding a damn desk.

Cody snorted like an angry teenager. "Do you still think it's worth it now?"

Emily ran her tongue over her bottom lip and inhaled. She moved from the chair across from him, around the table to the one beside him, typically reserved for a lawyer. "Why did you do it, Cody?"

"Did you know that my father had a drinking problem?" His voice was so soft, she might not have heard it if she wasn't sitting so close.

"No, I didn't." It didn't come up when they were investigating.

"He didn't start drinking until after you met him...after Gamble, I had nightmares, I wet the bed, and at first my parents were good about it. But, after a couple months, they couldn't deal with it anymore. My father would spank me, hard. He began to drink because he felt bad hurting me, and he was an angry drunk." He swallowed around a sob, tears springing to his eyes. "When I slept I dreamt of Gamble...of what he did to me, and when I was awake, my father hit me. I wanted to die, Emily. I couldn't stop him, I just wanted to die."

She watched the tears rush down his cheeks, his face reddening, and at that moment, she was as close as she'd ever get to really understanding an unsub. His father had died two months ago, three days before the body of Daryl Williams turned up, beaten almost beyond recognition.

"How did you pick these men, Cody?"

He gave a bitter laugh, and wiped tears away. "I didn't hunt them or anything, I didn't have to. There's always men like that around."

"Men like your father, or men like Gamble?"

"Both."

Five men in total, all beaten to death, all with evidence of serious overkill.

Emily sighed. "How did you know I was in Chicago?"

"CBS. I was watching a news report of the killings, they said the FBI arrived to help. I recognized you."

"So, why send me letters? Why not just turn yourself in, if you wanted to stop?" She winced, her voice came out harsher than she expected.

He looked at her, eyes still wet and dripping. "Because, if I turned myself in, they'd just put me in jail."

Emily frowned, not understanding. She looked into his eyes, and saw that neediness she'd seen earlier reappear. Then she got it. The last time someone had cared unselflessly for him had been when he was six years old.

"Do you wish you'd let him kill me now?"

She told him what he needed to hear. "No."

Suddenly, he launched himself at her, and at first she was ready on the defensive, but then he simply wrapped himself around her, and began to sob into her shoulder. For just a moment, Emily was back in that warehouse, bleeding out from two stab wounds, and holding a terrified little boy in her arms. Then she wasn't.

It was her fortieth birthday, and she'd hit a second mile stone. A serial killer was sobbing in her arms, that was definitely a first.

They were in a conference room, finishing paper work. Emily's was already finished, all except for her signature, and handing it to Hotch, but her attention had drifted away. She was busy reliving that night in her mind, wondering what would have happened if she'd called back-up. If Gamble had had the chance to kill Cody, if she hadn't been put on a desk.

Those five men would have been alive. She might have already burned out.

Emily turned her pen over in her hand, eyes fix on the shaft, but unfocused. She could hear Reid's pen scratching the page. It always took him longest to get through paper work, except for Hotch. It took considerable effort for Reid to keep his handwriting neat, his tendency was to scribble things out in time to his rapid thoughts. And, when he put that much effort in, it tended to be tiny, so he had to put double the effort in make sure it could be read without causing Hotch eye-strain.

Their Unit Chief was in the Lieutenant's office, continuing to try and smooth out the bizarre turn of events the team's presence brought. Well, her presence. Rossi and Morgan were sitting quietly, watching her do nothing. It would be a while before they completely assimilated these new facts about her, until they stopped wondering what was going on in her head. She missed JJ.

Rossi drew her attention first, her focus snapping back to the present, as she looked up and met his eyes.

"Cody Hamilton killed five people trying to get back at his father. That's not on you," he said.

"I know."

"But, it doesn't feel that way right now," he filled in.

Emily sighed. "I saved a six year-old boy, so he could spent the next thirteen years being abused by his father and killing five people..." She looked at him. "Why don't we even get to feel good about the ones we save?"

"Way I see it, you won twice on this one." She offered him a skeptical look. "You saved a child, and you caught a serial killer, both good deeds."

"Sure, if you separate them. But the child became the serial killer."

"But, you couldn't have known that. He was an innocent, scared little boy, and clearly, you made an impression on him," Rossi insisted.

"Lucky me."

Morgan sighed from the other side of the table. "Rossi is right. That kid sent you those letters because you saved him once, he was counting on you to save him again, and you did. What you gave him in that room was more than his parents ever gave him, and frankly, more than he deserves."

"Maybe...I'll get over it. I just need to shake it off." Still, this one wasn't going to be easy to shake off.

"Hello? Anybody home?" Garcia's voice startled them, and pulled all their attention to the laptop in the middle of the table. It was facing Reid, so they all gathered around the genius, who seemed to finally have gotten through his paperwork.

On the screen was their resident tech goddess and former media liaison, who looked a little tired, but happy to see the team.

"So, now that Hamilton confessed, are you guys coming home tonight? We've got a birthday to celebrate, and Jayje had to finagle to get out of being on-call tonight."

She had tried very hard to get out of celebrating, because really, there's no reason to celebrate forty when you're still single (and practically celibate), and your life basically consists of your job, and the plant you killed last week. Garcia though, had insisted, and when Garcia insists, it's best not to fight her.

"Birthday girl is in a bit of a funk," Morgan informed her.

Emily rolled her eyes. "I said I'd get over it."

"Ooh, too slow sweetie. We'll get you over it, and margaritas, some of them will help too." Garcia looked positively gleeful. It would be the first time all seven of them were together since JJ left.

"I was thinking more martinis," Emily said.

Garcia chuckled. "That's my girl. Does that mean you guys are going to make it home?"

"Paper work is done, Hotch is making nice with the locals, we should be out of here in half an hour," Rossi answered.

"Then an hour and a half flight, you should get here around eight thirty. Perfect timing to party."

"How did the case go?" JJ asked, looking right at Emily.

"I take it Garcia's kept you updated?"

"Enough."

The profiler sighed. "He didn't get to kill anyone since we got here, so good."

"Then you did your job," she said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. They both knew it wasn't.

Hotch came back, and they said goodbye, and everybody was all too happy to head to the jet. His brief appraisal might have been surreptitious if they weren't profilers, and constantly aware of everyone's behavior. Emily shot him a weak smile, reassurance that she was fine. Hotch nodded.

As they assembled on the jet, Reid reached into his bag, and pulled out a small box. "I've got Uno."

Morgan gave a shrug, and slid in across from him, and Emily slid in beside Morgan. Reid began to shuffle enthusiastically, while Morgan leaned around her.

"Yo Rossi, Hotch, you guys want to play?"

Hotch waved his stack of paperwork. Rossi shook his head. "If we're not starting the party until 8:30, I'm taking a nap."

"Seriously, you need a nap?" Morgan asked.

"I'm an old man, my stamina isn't quite up to par with you kids," he joked, heading toward the back of the plane. Not one of them actually believed that.

Reid's dealing was as enthusiastic as his shuffling. "Do you guys know how to play?"

"Everyone knows how to play this game, Reid," Morgan informed him.

"Not true, you know it's a common misconception that it originated as a Spanish or Hispanic game, because of it's name, but it was actually created by a barber shop owner in Ohio. He and his son got into an argument over Crazy 8's and-"

"Reid," Morgan interrupted. "We do not need the complete history of Parker Brothers."

The genius frowned. "Uno isn't made by Parker Brothers, it's made by Mattell."

"Well, we don't need their history either." Then he turned to Emily. "Have you gone mute or something?"

"Hmm?" She looked up from her hand, startled to suddenly have attention, thoughts in her head retreating.

"You take a trip to space?"

She opened her mouth to object, but then smiled. "Just strategizing on how best to kick your asses."

Morgan grinned. "Bring it on, Princess."

Reid winced. "Why do I feel like I'm going to suffer the most in this?"

She smiled.

Forty looked a lot different than twenty-seven, but thank god for that.