Hi fanfic readers! This is for the Prentiss Mystery challenge. I've never written a story/one-shot for one of these prompts before, but I figured I'd give it a go. I like the Emily mystery/Interpol idea, even though I'm sad Paget Brewster's leaving CM. As a warning, this story is somewhat dark, the language slightly vulgar, and the circumstances fabricated. My math skills aren't too developed, so I'm guessing Prentiss is in her early to mid 40s in the current season, which would make her somewhere in her mid to late twenties during the flashback scenes I've written... Let's pretend that I know a little bit about government agency regulations for fiction's sake. Lastly, I am not responsible for what happens to certain blond agents...

Enjoy! :)

"This is the Hour of Lead-

Remembered, if outlived,

As freezing persons, recollect the snow-

First-Chill-then Stupor-Then the letting go."

-Emily Dickinson

"Put the gun down, Doyle." There's a cock of the head, a manic look, and a wild grin that sends ice through my veins. Something's not right. Something's never right. I thought I'd be used to this teetering by now.

"This won't end well. You know that." He nods, slowly, as if the chaos he's created is pooled in the blood by his feet, seeping into his limbs in some kind of drug-induced euphoria.

"I'm glad I found you, Em." I can't stop the goosebumps. The room is cold, but, under my shirt, I can feel the collected beads of sweat. I had been in too much of a hurry to throw on my vest, and the decision seems foolish now. Morgan eyes me from his rigid stance a few feet away. Hotch, Rossi, and Reid are here too, but the spotlight's on me. I wish someone would turn it off.

"It's been a long time. Far too long." His stance is just as secure as mine. I know his habits. I know him. The way he keeps a half-empty bag of sunflower seeds in his pocket, munching on the oval-shaped snack during spare moments. He likes his coffee black, like Hotch, and, when he's frustrated, he runs a hand through his hair, which is now speckled with gray. He's from another world, another life, but I still can recall every detail.

"Put the gun down." My voice is steady, composed, and calm. If my teammates sense my unfurling terror, no one says a word. This is my demon, my negotiation, and they know it. We all have our moments.

"Emily," he chuckles bitterly. "You always were so good at keeping it together. Funny, though. I thought you'd be a wreck now..." From across the room, Hotch's deadpan stare penetrates my skin. I can feel its crackle, its burn, and I want to tell the team to leave. I don't want them to see the inevitable end.

"What do you mean?" It's Reid's voice, oddly, that breaks through the thin barrier. It's the same tone he uses when he tries to empathize with an unsub, yet he doesn't know that Doyle will break and destroy him in ways that he'll never understand. He's seen too much, and I can't let him get hurt. Not now. Not again.

"It's nothing." I tell Doyle, although I'm really speaking to my colleagues. Morgan raises one eyebrow. I can practically hear the gears in Rossi's head spinning, clicking into place.

"You mean they don't know?" Doyle is howling in laughter now, and my confidence is beginning to crumble. "You mean to tell me that the team doesn't know about your past Emily Prentiss?" Reid throws me a confused look that borderlines apology. Morgan visibly tenses.

"We all have our secrets." My voice is flat, harsh, and filled with too much emotion. Doyle pounces.

"Haven't you all wondered?" He speaks to everyone now. The body by his feet twitches. She's dead, almost, and somehow this feels like my fault. I didn't pull the trigger, but I wish I had. I'd rather be blamed for the death I didn't cause than the nuanced story that's about to be excavated.

"When Emily just appeared at the BAU, no one questioned where she had been before?" Even Hotch can't hide the surprise from cracking through his facade. The gun in my outstretched hands begins to shake slightly.

"We don't question each other's motives." Morgan growls, and, all at once, I'm thankful for his protection.

"Oh, but you should." Doyle grins and I notice his teeth are stained yellow. I always told him cigarettes were a nasty habit, but, back then, I was the one with the destructive streak. He still looks amazingly young, even after all the years in jail.

He's the same man I first met in the bustling Czech square. I had watched him from an outdoor cafe table, sizing up his relaxed demeanor, casual cigarette flicks, and practical, warm black boots. I pretended not to notice his long strides, or curly black pony tail. Back then, I thought of myself as a wanderer, an aimless spirit, but a free one nonetheless. I was also exhausted, hungry, and homeless, although I had too much pride to call my mother and beg for money, forgiveness, or an absolution I never wanted. In a week, Doyle swept in, won the role of protector, and I never looked back. I should have.

"Put the gun down, Doyle. Sharing time is over." Rossi's tone is strong and even, and it focuses my attention and makes me stand a bit straighter.

"Emily hasn't ever told you she used to work for the CIA?" There's a collective intake of breath. I close my eyes, open them, and the scene remains: the blood spattered basement, the deflated body at Doyle's feet, and my coworkers' confused looks as we stand in a semi circle around Doyle. His back's against a wall, he has one bullet left, and he knows he's fucked. He doesn't back down, though. Never let them see your fear, Em. He told me once. I wonder if he even understands just how many times I've used that particular lesson in the past fifteen years.

"Her past doesn't matter." Hotch's voice is as collected as it always is and a tiny balloon of hope inflates in my chest.

"So none of you are remotely interested in the fact that Emily used to be a drug addict? Heroin, as a matter of fact?" This time I catch Reid's wide, understanding orbs. No one else even dares to breathe.

"And, when her boyfriend got caught in a ring, she took the CIA's offer. Work for us," he growled. "Turn the boyfriend in and come work for us. We won't put you in jail if you do."

"You were the boyfriend?" Rossi asks, although his words are a statement. Doyle nods.

"Do you know what Russian prison is like?" He's speaking to me now, and me alone.

"I never sold the drugs, Doyle. You did that. You were the one who kidnapped those kids. You demanded the ransom. Not me." I say these things to reassure myself, but I don't dare look at my teammates. We all have our secrets, our pasts, but mine is rocketing to the forefront at an alarming rate. Doyle nods and the greasy ends of his chin-length hair catch on the stubble lining his cheeks.

"That's because you were too fucked up to help. Back in those days," he tells the team. "Emily floated through life." As if I never left, as if I never stopped, I can feel the cloudless oblivion rolling in waves. Doyle's laughing next to me, reaching for the needle, pulling me closer. Our bodies are warm between the sheets, but I'm not there...

I'm never anywhere.

"You were a wonderful lover, Em." Morgan's knuckles turn white around hi gun's handle. Hotch sends him a look that's more a furtive warning.

"Hot too. Always ready to go..."

"Enough!" I've expected Morgan to react so angrily, but it's Rossi who breaks first. His glare makes my flesh dance in anticipation of the disclosure I know will come.

"It is enough." Doyle glares at Hotch, who returns the stare with an equally menacing one. "Emily turned me into the CIA. She let me rot all those years while she moved from the CIA to the FBI. She forgot that I once helped her forget."

"I never forgot." My voice wavers, composure threatening to break, and Reid's eyes are practically bulging out of their sockets. His brain has rocketed the puzzle pieces into place, and I can already hear his rambled apology for his actions so many years prior. I want to tell him I understand, I always have, but my attention's focused on Doyle.

"It wasn't easy getting clean." Doyle grins at his declaration and his upper lips splits. "It was hell. But you got to walk free. You didn't spend your nights in terror, afraid of what was in store for you if you so much as moved the wrong way." I wonder if Doyle knows how right he actually is except his fears were in the form of cruel acts performed by the other inmates and mine were shadowed, haunting nightmares.

"I was young, Doyle. I was lost. What do you want me to do? I never did the things you did...do..." The red, bloody color on the floor is in harsh contrast to the dark stone walls, but I know he killed her out of spite. Out of pure malice.

"Haven't you all wondered?" Doyle's laughing again, but the light doesn't reach his eyes. "I mean, come on, you didn't wonder why her Russian was so bad and her other languages so good?"

"The Russian language-" Rossi shoots Reid a knowing glance and he quiets, glancing at the concrete ground to stop his tangent.

"I never learned enough Russian because I was high all the time. You made sure of that." The anger I've kept at bay for so long is surfacing. It lines the edges of my voice, and Doyle notices, driving closer to the center of the storm when he speaks next.

"You did help me then, Em. You may not have kidnapped or hurt those kids, but you let it happen. While you were too fucked up to move and to understand what was going on around you, I was getting us money for more drugs. When you were high, those kids died." His grin is pure evil now. I fight the urge to vomit.

"All that torture? It was never me. I didn't even know until right before the raid!" The thin line of explanation, guilt, self composure breaks, and, as Doyle begins to tell my team what I've kept hidden for so long, I'm back. I've never really left:

Fifteen Years Prior:

The room is dark and I yawn, stretching my limbs towards the ceiling. My body aches and creaks, and the floor feels chilly despite the thick layer of throw rugs. In the hallway, the far-off light emits an eerie glow, filtering in from a crack between the wooden door and the tile floor. The ground is cold and a shuffle quickly, wondering what he's making in the kitchen. It's late, but we've been too far gone to eat all day. Well, at least I have been, but I'm not sure about Doyle.

Where I've expected a man making tea, there's a sight I've never imagined , or wanted, to see. A child, no more than eight, is bloody and bruised on the floor. Doyle is counting money at an adjacent table. Cold, hard, calculated numbers mouthed silently from his lips. I want to scream, but my eyes cannot tears aware from the lifeless void on the floor. Through the steel wood stove door, the dying embers trickle a weak warmth outwards. It takes a moment, but he senses my presence.

"Em..." My name is whispered. I'm frozen. It takes a moment for him to reach me, and I smell the stale stench of cigarettes before he does. It burns my nostrils and blurs my vision.

"What did you do?" I whisper. His gaze flickers to the floor before it reaches mine. Where I've expected softness, there's only a callous shell.

"Don't you worry about that," he spits as if they young, dead boy is as disposable as a used, crumbled piece of paper torn from a lined notebook. "We got enough ransom money to fuel a lot of binges." He grins, pulling me in for a kiss. At the last second I turn away, and his lips graze my cheek.

"We aren't doing anything." I emphasize. The boy is dressed in his pajamas. His blue eyes are wide, open, and startled. The train engines on his clothes tell me he's young. Too young to understand the horrible world, but not young enough to willingly wander away with a stranger.

"You took him." I manage to say. "From his bedroom..."The pieces are falling into place and I don't like the picture they're creating.

"I said not to worry about it, Em." Doyle's voice is no longer sweet and the tone should have prepared me for the brutality that was surfacing, but I never learned. After Italy, I never became any wiser.

"You fucking took him, Doyle!" I'm screaming now, tears streaming down frozen cheeks. The withdrawals are already settling in and I'm afraid of what comes next. "What the fuck is wrong with you!"

"His father owed me money." Doyle says nonchalantly, nodding towards the stacks of bills and coins littering the table.

"So you took and killed his fucking kid!" I want to grab the child on the floor and wrap him in my arms. I want to rock his pain away, lullaby away his death, but I'm still motionless.

"We got drug money, didn't we?" My head is shaking from side to side, my lips parted, but I don't make a sound.

"You know you need it, Em." His lips are on my neck, his hands in my hair, and I feel dirty. Used. Numb. When I push away, he reacts. The brick walls meet my back, my head bounces off the ancient stone, and when his closed fist meets my cheekbone, I don't even feel the crack.

"You need me." He burns through clenched teeth while rough hands canvass my body. "You have nowhere to go, Em." I nod, overwhelmed by pain and fear.

"You're right, but I will."

Present Day:

"You fucking left, Em! You just left. What about me?"

"You!" I spit. "How about the kid, Doyle? You killed him." The tears are pooling at my lenses. I wish Hotch would look away.

"How about loyalty, you bitch!" Morgan growls at Doyle's words, and I can hear and feel his rage. I want to send Morgan some semblance or reassurance, but I don't dare turn to meet the anger I know is seething through his blood.

"Tell them, Emily. Tell your team how about the CIA. Tell them how you made a deal and betrayed our trust. Betrayed me." I can't help but look at each one of them now. Their expression are all oddly composed, but I know they're just as overwhelmed as I am. The tears have escaped my lids, and, when I speak, my voice is strained under the weight of memory.

Fifteen Years Prior

My body burns. It begs for something, anything, just a little oblivion, but I know there's nothing to stop this onslaught of pain. In Russia, it's always cold, and this night is no different. I pull my arms around me, pushing palms deep into my shoulder bones. Everything protrudes in pain. I know I'm too thin, but the heroin meant more than substance. It was more than food, than warmth, than love, yet, all at once, I want nothing more than to leave it all behind.

I'm bent over a snowbank, releasing the contents of a near-empty stomach into the snow, when I hear a car stop, idling behind me. I expect Doyle's forceful anger, but the voice that speaks is calm, soothing, and female.

"Are you alright?" I teeter to my full height, swaying dangerously to one side when I turn to face the voice. Her blond hair peeks from underneath a thick, wool hat. Her sympathetic green eyes pierce through my vacant dark ones.I can tell she isn't of Russian descent, and she looks and sounds familiar, yet I can't place her. Maybe I've died and she's some type of angel. Funny, I think, but I always thought I was headed in another direction.

"I'm not feeling well." I don't speak the entire truth, but she nods like I've explained everything. When I close my eyes to garner some strength, the dead child stares at me from behind closed lids.

"Who did this to you?" She reaches for my eye, brushing what I know is a dark, unforgiving bruise with a mittened hand. The fabric scratches at my numbed skin. I don't have the heart to tell her that there are other bruises: Some self-inflicted dots hidden in the folds of my elbows, and, some other, much larger ones, on my legs, stomach, and back. Those are the marks I've learned to keep hidden underneath clothing and layers. Doyle doesn't like it when he thinks others can see me. If I'm going to be exposed, he wants to be the one to do so.

"You work at the coffee shop." I tell her when my mind finally recognizes the soft voice. She nods, and the gesture almost gets lost in the howl of wind. I'm shivering so violently that I my joints hurt from holding me together. When I sway again, her strong hands are there to stop the long descent to the frozen, snow-covered ground.

"Are you in trouble, Emily?" How she knows me name, I'm not sure, but I nod. There's a hole in the knee of my jeans and the fabric swells outwards as the gust penetrates through. A wave of nausea rises , filling my cheeks with the familiar acrid taste. I lean over the snowbank yet again as ice crystals clump in the wind, shooting upwards to sting at my cheeks. She rubs my back and, suddenly, I want my mother. I want to be anywhere other than where I am.

"I need help." I crack, and she nods, reaching deep into her pocket, fumbling through thick layers.

"I can help you." She tells me. The badge is official, and it occurs to me that her accent is American, but I've also heard her speak fluent Russian before. I've been here for a little over a year, and she knows more than I do.

"I'm Agent Mallory with the CIA. I believe you know something about someone we've been looking for..." She pauses not for emphasis, but for self regulation. "If you help us get him, you won't go to federal prison." I nod because I know she's talking about Doyle. I know I won't make it through prison and, if we continue to stand in the frozen air and dark night, I won't make it to morning.

"Come on," she says kindly, leading me to the car. I'm too tired to argue and I let her guide me through snow drifts. If this is a trick, I've jumped right in. The car is warm, and my uncovered flesh protests with pain at the sudden increase in temperature. The driver gives me a curt nod through the rear-view mirror as he also flashes a CIA badge. I recognize him too. He's a janitor at the coffee shop. It all makes sense, but nothing does.

"We'll go to headquarters, let you rest, and then we'll talk about what needs to be done." Agent Mallory says, pulling at a bundled pack. I nod, accepting the thick blanket she's salvaged from the rucksack's depths. The barrenness outside the window rushes past. I close my eyes and succumb to sleep.

Present Day:

"I helped the CIA. They wired me and I met Doyle a week later. He's the reason I'm here right now and I'm the reason he was in jail." I'm explaining everything to the team now and their expressions are a mixture of pain, disbelief, confusion, and utter bewilderment.

"What this bitch didn't tell you is how I looked for her. I scoured the streets, afraid that something had happened, only to find out that she had been working behind my back the whole time!"

"You kidnapped and killed a child." Reid's logic brings me back to the situation. Always the voice of reason.

"Who the fuck cares?" Doyle yells. "I killed more than that kid! I killed this idiot trainee too!" He kicks Seaver's lifeless body. Everyone flinches.

"I stayed at the embassy for a week." I tell everyone, although the story itself doesn't matter. I don't really matter, but it's been over a decade, almost two in fact, and what's being unearthed needs to be swept of all its dirt.

"When the raid was over, the CIA offered me a job. I did that for a while and then switched to the FBI. Eventually-"

"You made your way to the BAU." Hotch interrupts softly, eying me with hard-set dark orbs. I nod.

"What happened?" Morgan asks with a husky voice. It's like we're sitting in the conference room and not standing with our guns still drawn in a damp basement that smells like iron and is saturated with fear.

Fifteen Years Prior

"Relax, Emily. You know what to do." Agent Mallory's voice is in my ear and I jump and then ease at her tone. If I can get through this, if I survive, I have a job waiting for me. Granted, a job I don't want, but it's either that or jail. I sigh, running my hand through my long hair. I'll have to cut it when I leave, but I want nothing more than to shed this life I've created for myself. I want to leave it all behind and never breathe a word of it to anyone ever again.

The coffee shop is crowded because it's mid morning. At the counter, Agent Mallory serves customers with her usual cheery voice. The driver from a few nights prior is mopping a deliberate spill in the corner. Around me, there are other agents mixed among other patrons. Even the heavy snowfall can't defer the Russians from venturing outside. I shiver, sensing his presence in the room.

A familiar silhouette approaches the table. I'm standing from my chair, allowing his arms to canvas me into the cocoon I wish was performed under different circumstances. The last week has been hell, accentuated by the highs and lows of severe heroin withdrawal. I've wanted the drug, craved it so much I've scabbed bits of skin off my arm to distract myself from the waves of physical and mental anguish. The agents have kept me under close watch, instructing my every move, my every word. But the cravings stopped when wind of a second missing child reached the embassy. I knew. Deep down, I knew.

"Emily." Doyle's tone is soft, and I wonder if the monitoring device buried far underneath my thick layers can record the pain in his voice. The pain I know I've inflicted. Reflexively, I brush the faded, yellow bruise underneath my eye socket.

"I missed you. I've been so worried." He clasps both my hands in his and I stare at the union of fingertips. Against the harsh red tabletop, we look misplaced. My hands are stained with my actions and my weak admittance of drowning. His are strong, demanding a strength I'm not sure I have.

"I needed to get away..." I tell him truthfully, flicking my eyes to his. He nods, giving me a reassuring squeeze.

"I have something that will bring you back." He's suddenly alive, pulling away, and reaching into his inner jacket pocket for the familiar substance. I look for a long moment and blink.

"I'm clean, Doyle." He gives me a narrowed look, but nods, closing the fabric with a quick draw of the zipper.

"It's been a long week, Em." His fingers are back on mine and, internally, I recoil. My gaze falls on his hollowed cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, and tar-stained fingertips. In that moment, I want to be lost.

"What you did, Doyle..." I can't speak of the boy, but I can see his apparition standing among the patrons surrounding us. His train-decorated pajamas brightly contrast the dark clothing in the shop.

"I know," he squeezes my fingers again and the tips turn white. "I promise I'll never hit you again." I'm yanking my arms away before I can stop myself and I'm sure my expression is shocked. He's said those words before, a thousand times before, but I'm not repulsed by his false, abusive declarations.

"You killed a child, Doyle." I grit through clenched teeth, leaning forward so no one will hear, which is ironic considering how many people are remotely listening to this conversation.

"Again with the kid." He rolls his eyes, murder a stop on a map to him. I see his hand go to his pocket and the loud smash of sunflower seeds against molars penetrates the tension. I grip the sides of my chair to steady my racing heart.

"You took another one, didn't you?" My voice is barely audible, but he takes note. His shoulders shrug upwards towards the ceiling. "You blew through the first batch of ransom money and you took another one for more money." Surprisingly, I'm gaining confidence.

"You should have been there, Em." His eyes are shining. "It was a beautiful binge." He goes to touch my hand again and I bolt backwards. The metal chair legs scrape against the floor with a harsh grinding sound.

"I would never use that money. I'm done with this shit, Doyle. I'm done with you." My bottom lip quivers uncontrollably and I can see faint traces of his profile through my blurred vision. There's a surge of righteousness flowing through me and, although my defenses are cracking, I know I'll never touch drugs again. I'll never let Doyle touch me again.

"Very well, Em." His anger is bordering physical rage, but we're in public. He wouldn't dare hit me here. The crackling of sunflower seeds becomes more intense.

"I'll never leave you, though. You'll take me with you." He tosses more seeds into his mouth. "I'll be with you everywhere you go, or, in your case, run. I'll be in every bad day, and hidden in every happy moment. You'll never forget me or what I've done..." I want to react, but I'm frozen, motionless.

"After all, who would believe you. A junkie." He grins wildly, surveying my thin frame, jutting bones, and bag-rimmed eyes. "Excuse me, an ex-junkie." Something inside me snaps into place. The trembling stops, the tears evaporate, and I lean forward once more, eyes never leaving his.

"Where did you put the bodies?" For a moment, he's startled by my composure and honesty. I wonder if he'll tell me, if he's that stupid, but I know he loves me. He's always loved me. I've always been his fucked up girl. His young, drug-addicted, twenty something. I've never loved him, though. Not completely, anyway. I've only ever loved the destructive magnetism between us that's been fueled by my own insecurities and always masked by the constant deluge of drugs.

"You know that library you've always wanted in the house? You know, the library I started building on your last birthday?" I ignore the bubbling bile shooting upwards. For a moment, I can smell the sawdust and hear the faded sound of power tools. Swallowing deeply, I nod, keeping my stare looked on his cold eyes.

"They're behind a bookcase. It swings open. You know, like one of those haunted house secret rooms. You just yank on a book," He motions in the air with his hand, pulling forward on an invisible novel. "And, poof! Random room and a few dead bodies." He smiles at the me as if he's enjoying my discomfort. More sunflower seeds grind between his teeth as he leans back into the seat.

"Pretty neat trick, isn't it?" He looks pleased, proud of himself even. I nod, barely registering that I'm clamoring to my feet. My legs are shaking so badly it's a miracle I'm standing at all. Around us the agents begin moving into place, but Doyle doesn't notice.

"It is a neat trick." I agree in a loud, secure tone. "But it's not as good as this one." In one motion, I pull off the three layers of sweater, revealing the tangled mesh of wires. Doyle's eyes widen and he reaches for his hip. I know his gun is there, but so do the agents. I've told them everything.

There's a whirl of activity and a loud commotion comprised in both Russian and English. Confused, startled patrons are backing towards the exit, eying the developing scene. Doyle's chair sails in the air, landing halfway across the room with a brilliant smashing of glass. Someone curses, and, then, it's over. He's fighting two strong, but muscular agents, who have his hands twisted and locked into handcuffs.

"You're a bitch!" He screams. I see his red-veined eyes, dilated pupils, and burning cheeks. In the struggle, the sunflower seeds have fallen to and scattered on the floor. They now crunch under heavy shoes and shuffled steps. The last thing I hear is my name as Doyle is pulled into the cold, unforgiving winter air.

Present Day:

"I'm sorry I never told you all before." This conversation is not happening where I imagined it would, but no one is moving. My coworker's guns are still extended, but the past, my past, is swirling around us, hanging between the thin protective barriers we've kept between us for so many years.

"She's a fucking liar!" Doyle yells, waving his gun frantically. Reid cringes, but holds his stance.

"You killed and kidnapped two children." Hotch rationalizes, tone unreadable. I want to drop myself at his feet and beg for forgiveness.

"You've worked with her all this time and none of you knew!" He's howling with laughter, but it sounds unstable. Earlier, Reid had profiled that Doyle, our unsub, would have some type of psychosis, and, now, I can see the toll of Doyle's imprisonment. He's shaking in the cold air, although the room feels like an inferno and we're at its very center.

"Our personal lives aren't what's important." Hotch sends me an understanding look and the tension I feel eases substantially. "Catching murders and criminals is our main priority."

"Emily's a killer! She killed me when she betrayed me!" His gun is waving erratically. I sense the end is here, but I'm not sure why.

"It's her fault I'm like this! It's her fault this will end this way!"

"I'll ask you one more time," Rossi says, taking the lead from Hotch. "Drop the gun and surrender. No one else will get hurt. No one has to. Things do not have to end in any type of way." Doyle laughs crazily and the sound ricochets off the walls, thundering to my ears. Never let anyone in, Em. In the end, you'll be alone. You'll always be alone.

"Sorry, Em." Doyle's smile is lope-sided, his eyes glazed and off-center. "This is the only way to end things. I have to make things right." His arm is straightening in my direction. A chorus of male voices whirl around me. Before I know what's happening, there's a series of gunshots penetrating my memories. The world is distant, a haze, a blinding flash of a muddle past colliding with an uncertain future. Before everything fades to black, I hear a voice in my ear: I'll never leave you...You'll take me with you...

When I open my eyes again, I see Morgan's mocha ones. He's staring down at me, and I can feel his weight pushing somewhere by my left shoulder. It hurts to breath, but I can't tell if it's from my fall or Morgan's steady hands.

"It's alright, Em." Where I've expected a betrayed look, there's a forgiving one. Morgan trusts very few and I'm shock he still has some stored for me.

"Doyle-"

"He's dead." Reid is on my other side, holding my hand. His fingertips are icy, and it's then I realize how cold the basement actually is. My body rocks with shivers, and Rossi's jacket is covering my body. It smells like his cologne, and I take a deep, painful inhalation, allowing the familiar scent to calm my tingling nerves. Hotch's voice is yelling for medics. I want to sleep.

"It will be okay, Prentiss." Morgan's voice is in my hair and he gently pushes my bangs away from my forehead. Something wet smudges where his hand travels. I try to smile, but it becomes a grimace.

"Stay awake, Em." Rossi's voice cracks and it's fracturing is only heightened by Reid's silent sobbing. His grip on my hand is so tight that I wonder if he's broken my fingers.

"Seaver?" I whisper. No one speaks, but they exchange glances that tell me everything I need to know. In some distant background, Hotch's voice is ordering someone to my side. EMT's are trying to push Reid, Morgan, and Rossi away, but they won't budge.

"I'm sorry." I tell them. I tell their tears. "I'm so sorry." Rossi nods first, holding my gaze for a long moment before turning away. Morgan bends to give me a quick kiss on the forehead. When he's close to my cheek and I can feel his hot breath on my face, his voice floats to my ear in a slow whisper: "I forgive you, Em. You're strong, you've made me strong, and I can't do this job without you." I don't know if I'm awake or dreaming when he jumps upwards, rocketing towards the opposite wall with clenched fists. Only Reid seems unwilling to move, hanging onto my hand in desperation.

"I never knew...I'm sorr...sorry." He sputters, water falling from his cheeks onto mine.

"Me too, Reid."

"I didn't know." He shakes his head, unable to contain his emotions. There are hands pulling on his shoulders, and Reid's fingers are slipping from mine. It's okay, Reid. I tell him silently through a look I know he recognizes. You can let go now. In a moment of self composure, Rossi manages to veer him away. Reid's protest floats around me, but his words mesh with the EMTs, whose frantic hands are assessing my vitals. There's a muffled noise, and I realize that Reid's chocking sobs are being suppressed by Rossi's firm shoulders.

"Sir, you need to move!" A clipped voice says. "We need to do our job." But Hotch is at my side, staring at me with a look I can barely see. His profile is blurring in and out of view.

"We'll be here when you wake up, Emily." It's an odd thing to say, but I understand the apology. I understand he understands. My lids are already closing, and there's a warmth carrying me away. Suddenly, none of it matters. Not my past, present, or even my future. I know I've been blessed to have traveled as far as I have with the this mismatched, loving family just as much as I know my luck has just about trickled dry.

"You promise, Hotch?" His eyes fill, empty, and fill again. He nods, lips quivering, bloodstained hand reaching for mine. The world slows, stops rotating for a singular moment, and his lips mouth the word "yes." I smile, loosening my grip on his. I've finally learned what I've tried a lifetime to avoid. I've stopped running, and everything becomes still. Just like that, I accept the fall.

Just like that, I let go.