to count for eternity

six.

...

This time, they cremate her.

(tangentially, it reminds him of the second law of thermodynamics – in which things go towards chaos, order to disorder, a composite being to dust, like when humpty dumpty fell and all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put him back together again, and fuck, nursery rhymes are lies lies lies – and he marvels at how a second can change a person into nothing but a pile of ashes and half-remembered memories—

and somewhere deep in the back of his mind, relief washes over him—

—he's not sure he would've been able to carry the coffin without buckling under the weight.)

He tells himself to lift his head a little higher, to move so that he doesn't resemble an uncoordinated giraffe, to meet her in the eyes as he should greet any stranger, let alone the Ambassador. It's difficult, and every effort feels like lead, but he manages to get out a few coherent words, and tries to look away from the cold expression on her face.

"Ma'am." His voice is hoarse and he tries for more, but the words get stuck in his throat. "I'm—I'm sorry."

She looks strangely, deeply at him. "You must be Spencer."

"That's me, yes. How—?"

"My daughter doesn't—" There is a minute shift in the Ambassador's eyes, a tiny falter, "—didn't say much about her team. Or her friends, for that matter. She always said just enough, but I've always known. You… remind me of her," she finishes rather uncomfortably.

"Emily."

"Excuse me?"

"Your daughter. We're standing at her goddamn headstone, her name is Emily."

(is, was; he's been wondering over and over for the last few days what the proper verb should be)

A flash of anger passes over her face. "You'd do well to remember—"

"—Ma'am, there isn't really anything you can say that won't make me more guilty or ashamed or small," he half-snarls. "But please, Emily deserved more."

"Of course she did, Agent Reid—"

"—'Doctor', actually."

"—Doctor Reid," she says, nostrils flaring. After a moment, her eyes soften, and for the first time, he can see glimpses of Emily hidden behind the Ambassador's haughty demeanour. "Anger, guilt, and resentment breeds, Doctor. Take care of yourself."

He blinks at the change, and after she gives him a solid nod and walks away with her security detail, he ducks his head again to face the overwhelmingly green grass. He stares and stares, before another voice cuts in.

"She's intimidating, isn't she?"

He shuffles his feet, gathers himself, before looking up to meet Hotch's eyes. "There are worse things to fear," he says dully.

Hotch nods without replying. Reid looks intently at him, sees the sheen of wetness and redness and dryness and tiredness that never seems to go away anymore.

He blurts out suddenly. "Why are you still talking to me? I haven't seen—since—you should be—"

mad and angry and empty and confused and hateful and catatonic and hurt and lost and terrified and—

"I should," he agrees. "And I am. Every night, I wait in the parking lot, and then I remember. Every fucking night, I go home, and it's empty."

Reid swallows and blinks furiously. "Then why—"

"—Do you honestly think that I don't care enough about you? That I don't know the guilt and the fear that presses down on you everywhere, all the time? That I don't feel the same thing right now?"

"It's my fault," he argues back, the same three words that he's been saying to himself over and over and over.

"Yes. Maybe. Probably. But don't you dare think that I don't give a damn about my team." His voice lowers to a pained hiss, and his eyes flash with barely restrained tears and anger. "You are as much an agent as any of the others."

"I'm—" Is there such a thing as apologising too much?

"I know, Reid," he acknowledges quietly, outburst fading away without a trace. "I am too."

It falls silent after that, save for the rustling of nearby trees, and the hushed whispers from the others on their team. He manages to give them the barest hint of a smile, but has to start desperately swallowing when he sees Henry give him a small fisted wave in return.

He turns back to his supervisor, but determinedly looks at the engraved name of his friend instead. "Hotch. Do you ever… do you ever feel like you want to just… give up?"

He pauses for a moment, looks up to the sky and blinks rapidly, then gives the younger man a sad, sad smile. "Yes. All the time."

There is a phantom pain, he feels.

One night, he goes home with her, to her; and the next, he is alone, her possessions randomly strewn across his home, untouched and cutting a perfect mould of where she was.

(Jack cries, and he can't explain it, not again.

One night here, another night gone, and it's theoretically simple but he can't.)

He learns how to solve a Rubik's cube when he is seven.

(solve being the operative word – he'd argue that memorising a series of steps to fix a pattern doesn't require much creative input.)

He shows the completed cube to his mother, to his father; and they laugh, they say you have to do it, prove it, show me.

His small fingers slide over the plastic squares, almost like a caress. A multitude of colours spin through the air, he feels his heart hammering faster faster faster, it's not a race (but it is, oh, it is) and he comes to the last layer of the cube (almost there, spencer, you can do it), a few flicks, fumbles—

—drops, shatters.

(it's okay, spencer.

next time, you can always do it next time.)

It's another sunny day when he sits down in front of the headstone.

He sits cross-legged, awkwardly folding himself into a semi-comfortable position (doesn't let himself get too comfortable), lets his hands trace over her name again.

He clears his throat.

"Hey Emily," he cracks out. "I, uh, I'm here. Again, I guess. Last time… God, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I can't… Every single night, I can still hear the shot and it doesn't go away, it won't ever go away. And some nights I want it to go away, and then I think that it can't, it shouldn't. This compartmentalisation thing you kept talking about, well, I don't think I'm very good at it. That's another thing, I guess.

"I, um, I'm seeing one of the FBI shrinks. He's… he's okay. Mandatory, though. You would have hated that. I don't mind it as much… well, maybe not the first few times, I didn't say anything at all. Not like now. It's helping, I think. I hope, at least. I don't really have anything else. Everyone on the team was – is – crowding, you would have understood. God, you would have understood, and you wouldn't have said anything.

"We screwed up. You, me, and Hotch, we all screwed up. Couldn't tell each other anything, couldn't trust anyone. Fuck, maybe if you'd just told us before you died the first time. Or if Hotch told us… told me, I guess. Or if I told you both about the Dilaudid. Maybe the second time—maybe that wouldn't have happened… I, um, I keep thinking about how fucked up we were—we are, I guess. And you know how you wish you could have gone back and changed everything?… It doesn't work, Em, it doesn't fucking work, and I'm sorry. Like… um, like, I wish that maybe you could have just dragged me to see someone, you know? But it's not how it works, I suppose. Nothing ever works right.

"He left as well, you know. Or maybe you don't. I'm not sure I believe that an afterlife exists. But anyway. He left the team, and he hugged all of us before he walked out. Did you teach him to do that, Emily? Did you teach him to give us a hug, a smile, before going god-knows-where? He—he just left. And no one gets it, except I think I do. Maybe. Maybe, because I'm not sure of anything really. Nothing matters anymore, Em. Like, I don't even know why I'm talking because you're fucking dead. Properly dead, and Rossi doesn't even smirk and make jokes anymore.

"So, um, anyway. It's just Morgan, Rossi, JJ, and Garcia. And I mean, Rossi's either in his office or Strauss', and Garcia's in her room, sometimes with JJ. So it's too quiet, because it's just Morgan in the bullpen and he has his headphones on and no-one goes near him. Like, last week, I went to see the shrink and I walked past the glass doors, and I saw but I didn't go in, so yeah. It's me, again.

"He left, Emily. Are we selfish? He didn't even leave when Haley—when Haley died. And I don't understand. Because everyone fucking leaves, Em, everyone leaves. And I don't—I can't tell whether it's me this time, or maybe he just can't—

"—Emily, I don't know anymore."

It is numbing and it is cold, and he sits in his office, surrounded by his books.

He stares at the empty couch a few feet from his desk, just simply stares, waiting waiting waiting—

"—Aaron."

A small, triumphant smile breaks through. "Emily."

"Again?"

"Yes," he replies, without a trace of guilt.

"You can't keep doing this."

He shakes his head. "Can't turn it off."

"Of course you can. You're debating with yourself right now." The Emily on his couch crosses her arms and arches an eyebrow.

"And I'm winning."

"Listen to yourself, Aaron. If this were any other agent on your team, any other person, you would have argued otherwise."

He holds the tentative smile, before feeling it crumple. "Why are you right?"

"Because you are," she reminds him. "It's not healthy, and you need to talk to someone."

"If I talk to you, and you offer a differing view, doesn't that count?"

"God, you're difficult," she sighs, standing up and coming around to his desk. He peers up at her, and fully takes her in; her hair is gently curled around her shoulders, and she's wearing the simple combination of black pants and red silk top that he remembers from that time he came to get her for Milwaukee, eons ago. He stares again (eyes of awe), before closing them slowly.

"I'm trying, Em," he says, squeezing his eyes shut and concentrating. "I'm fucking trying."

"I know," she answers softly, bending down and carding imaginary fingers through his hair. "But you also know this has to stop."

"I just want—"

"—We all want something," she agrees, voice low and calm. "But that's never how it works."

"I want it back," he continues, unhearing. "I want you back, I want Reid better, I want Jack to smile, I want everything back the way it was before this fucking mess."

"And half those things are possible. But I'm not some sort of genie."

His eyes fly open. "I think I need to leave," he says abruptly.

"Go on," she encourages.

"No, I mean—"

"—You pick up the pieces, Aaron, you do what has to be done."

"This—this doesn't work anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing lasts," he says, looking at her, imploring her to understand. "All those times when we were working cases, and we sent you in as bait, or when we knew that shit was going to happen and you went in anyway, those times, we'd just sit and we'd have to wait to hear back from you. And even if you returned beaten to a pulp, we called it a win. And I thought—after Doyle, I thought we had you back for good. And you were—"

"—No, I wasn't, not quite," she interrupts with a sad smile.

A shadow passes across his face. "Yeah, I know," he admits. "But that's the point. You were back, Em, physically back, and I thought this is it. We'd get there, slowly, but we'd get there, and it was a win. And then—"

He swallows and feels her hand covering his. "And then I died," she finishes quietly.

"And then you died."

The words echo around his empty office, in time with the ticking seconds of the watch on his wrist. He slowly extricates his hand from hers.

"I'm sorry—"

"—don't be—"

"—but it didn't make a difference," he says.

She nods in agreement. "And if you can't see it—"

"—then I have to go."

"And so do I," she murmurs. "You can do this. For you, for Jack, for Reid. But not for me, Aaron. That chapter's over."

(And there is a moment when he goes absolutely still, processing, his face a mask of pain and raw anguish. And this time, the clock stops ticking; by sheer will, he forces time to stop, his breath caught in his lungs, stagnant—)

"I love you," he whispers, broken and cracked. He turns his face up, pleading, desperate, tries to commit everything to memory.

"Yeah, I know," she says gently, smiling one last time before fading.

His head slumps forward, buried in his hands. He presses his fingers to his eyes, feels the moisture coating the skin, presses harder to stem the rush. Minutes pass, and he counts endlessly along with his breathing. A soft knock on his door sounds, and he listens to the steps before lifting his head.

"JJ," he says, not bothering to hide the tears.

"Hotch. I, um… I thought I heard…"

He dashes a hand against his eyes. "Yeah."

"Can I help?" She asks, tentatively moving her hand to where Emily's was not too long ago.

He jerks his hand back. "Sorry," he mutters.

"No. No, that's—that's fine," she says, somewhat helpless.

"I'm leaving," he announces quietly.

"I'm sorry?"

"The team. I'm leaving the team," he clarifies.

She blinks once. "Right."

"Yes."

"When did you decide this?"

He flicks his eyes to his wrist. "About half an hour ago."

"Right," she repeats, still unsure of what else to say. "For Jack?"

"In part," he admits. "With Henry, I thought you might…"

"I get it," she replies softly. "But that can't be all. I mean, you stayed after Haley died."

He looks down, thinks, and it clicks into place.

"It's different this time," he says, and it is tired, tiring, he is so so tired. "We screwed up and this time, it wasn't the UNSUB, it wasn't whatever monster of a serial killer. Kate died, and that was a terrorist plot. Haley died, and that was Foyet. But Emily died, and that was because Reid—"

"—It's not his fault," she cuts in firmly.

"To everyone, except me and him, it's not his fault. To me and him, it's both of our faults, together. We did this. It's been months before December, maybe even before Emily came back from Paris. And you weren't there, JJ, not at the compound. We both—"

"—Kyle Lawrence pulled the trigger, Hotch, not you or Spence—"

"—You weren't there," he says again, voice rising steadily.

"So tell me what happened, then."

"No, I can't," he shakes his head. "If you really want to know, you can read the reports. And it doesn't matter anyway—"

"—No, it matters, Hotch. It matters because we're a goddamn family, and you're walking out when we need you. So you can at least tell me why."

He takes a deep breath. "JJ, please. Look at the team. I haven't been back for a full week yet; Rossi's practically turned his office into a bar, Garcia only ever wears two different colours at once now, Morgan either spends his time staring at the wall, beating the shit out of a punching bag, or at his desk with his headphones in, and I don't even know if Reid's coming back. It's changed, because it was different this time."

"So you walk away? Like Gideon walked away?"

"Gideon left because he couldn't handle it. I'm leaving because I can't see what difference I make anymore, not here, not in this unit."

"You can't see what difference you make? Hotch, it's all the difference in the world—"

"—No, it was that, but not this time. You're right, technically it was the UNSUB that pulled the trigger, but everything leading up to that? That was Em, Reid, and me, and all the shit between us. And I didn't or couldn't—I'm not sure anymore—do anything to stop that. So don't tell me whether you think I'm making a difference, because I know, and it doesn't matter anymore, not to me."

She blinks, and he hates that he can see tears starting to form in her eyes. She exhales, taking her time, tries again. "Hotch, you can't just give up."

"JJ, agents give up all the time, and for far less. Why should I be any different?"

"Because…"

He gives her a watery smile. "Because I've already been through so much? Because I can get through this too? Because I have you and the rest of the team? I've done as much as I can for the unit, maybe even too much, and now I'm leaving on my terms."

She stares at him before finally nodding. "Does anyone know yet?"

Yes. Emily. "No, just you."

"When are you planning to tell the team?"

"I'll speak to Strauss first. Then I'll tell them."

"And are you going to explain why?" She raises her eyebrows, demands and challenges.

"I don't think—"

"—Give us a little credit, Hotch," she almost snaps. "This is not just about you. We lost her too, okay? And if we're losing you as well, the rest of the team deserves to know why."

He gives her a small nod. "I can't tell Reid," he says quietly.

"He needs to know."

"No," he shakes his head. "That would be cruel—"

"—It would be cruel if you didn't tell him, Hotch—"

"—because it's putting into words what he already knows, but has yet to consciously realise. What else do you think he's been thinking about since that day? The option of not knowing, of doubt, is better than the truth."

She stares at him in disbelief. "That's ridiculous. So you'll let the rest of the team know why, except the one person who needs to know? You'll let him keep guessing—keep double-guessing himself—while the rest of us sit back and watch, when we know what's happened? And we're not supposed to say anything? It's Reid, Hotch, how could you not? So maybe you shouldn't have told me. Maybe I was wrong, maybe you shouldn't tell the team. Because what you're doing—what you're going to do to Reid? That's not fair, Hotch, and it's not fair to us."

He watches as she inhales and exhales deeply, as she clenches and unclenches her fists by her side. Blinking a few times, he lets his gaze wander over to the far wall, almost unseeing.

"I still can't tell him," he cracks out. "Unless he asks, I can't tell him."

"Fine. Then I don't know either," she says after a pause.

"What do I do, then? What do I say?"

"Tell them another truth." The answer slips from her far, far too easily.

He nods slowly, gratitude forming in his eyes. "And what about you?"

She gives him a tired shrug and her mouth twists sardonically. "Well, what's another secret between us, Hotch?"

Henry is a spoiled kid.

Questions demand answers.

Henry's insisted on showing him his new room, complete with glow-in-the-dark stars and planets stuck to the ceiling. Flicking off the lights and drawing the curtains closed, he lies down on the soft carpet and pats the spot next to him. With barely a hint of a tremor, he points out the planets, names them quietly for Henry.

Before long, he feels a tug on his trouser leg, sees the wide blue eyes (curious, and he can't fault him for that). "Why are you a doctor?"

"What?"

"Uncle Dave called you a doctor. He calls mommy an agent. Why are you a doctor?"

"I…" He swallows and gives him a small smile. "Doctors are cool."

"They fix people," Henry grins toothily in agreement.

"Yeah, some do. And some think about things, discover new ideas," he says. "Some know things."

"You know things. You know a lot of things."

Reid semi-laughs. "Hey Henry? Want to hear a secret?"

The boy moves closer, puts his ear exaggeratingly close to Reid. "Yeah?"

"Sometimes, we don't always know things. Sometimes, you might be smarter than me or your parents or any of the people your mom works with."

"Really?" His face lights up with delight.

"Yeah," Reid answers, swallowing. "Sometimes we think too much, and we're actually wrong about a lot of things. It's why we need you around."

Henry nods seriously and ducks his head. Placing his hand on his arm, he whispers. "It's okay, Doctor Spencer. I'm here right now."

"What do I do now?"

"What do you want to do?"

"Stop answering my question with another question," he snaps.

Doctor Petersen peers at him over the rim of his glasses, and sighs. "You are not a child, Doctor Reid. You have options, and you have a brain and a sizeable intellect. You can figure this out for yourself."

"I can't—I haven't been—"

"It's April now, Doctor Reid. The inquiry's almost over, and I have the paperwork to clear you to go back. You'll continue to see me, but you can go back to the BAU now. It's up to you."

He focuses on the oil painting above the desk. "Where's Hotch?"

Petersen considers him for a moment. "Agent Hotchner has decided to step down from the BAU. He's now teaching at the Academy."

He whips his head back, eyes widening. "Why?"

"I suggest you ask him yourself."

He goes quiet, trying to process the prospect of facing his team and his former supervisor.

Doctor Petersen takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes tiredly. "For what it's worth, Spencer, I think you should go back. You have the closest thing to a family there, and more importantly, you have a purpose there. They need you as much as you need them."

"I'm not that person, I've never been that person," he shakes his head. "I'm not as physically capable, I'm not the best marksman, I don't speak seven or however many languages, everyone is trained as a behavioural analyst, and they can use a computer to find any statistic they need. I joined the BAU because that's what I did."

"You are underest—"

"—It's my fault that Emily is dead, and Hotch left the team. Now tell me that they still need me."

"You are not a team of superheroes, no matter what your technical analyst says. And it is precisely because of this that you have a unique place on your team. The ability to empathise, Doctor Reid, to be the one who can take a step back and understand and know firsthand that the job requires much more than what is learnt at the Academy—that is a quality that cannot be overlooked. I've read your file, Spencer, and aside from the late Agent Prentiss, no one on the current BAU roster has had close to the amount of… shall we say, traumatic experiences as you have had on the job. And it is most certainly not a competition, but I would consider it a testament to your character that you are still here after almost a decade since you started with this unit."

"That's not releva—"

"—As to the death of Agent Prentiss," Petersen continues, voice ringing sharper than ever, "whether or not your words led to the UNSUB firing the weapon, well, that will never be resolved by any official proceedings. There are three accounts that can be heard, and only two that will matter: yours and Agent Hotchner's. You will not receive an official answer that will punish or absolve you. The most the FBI can do is to prevent this from happening again."

He turns his face away, fingers kneading the bridge of his nose. "I don't think I can see them again," he says, almost inaudible. "And if I were them, I'm not sure I'd want to."

"How do you know that?"

"I don't need to know it. I said, if I were them," he fires back.

"On the contrary. You do need to know it, Spencer. I wouldn't underestimate the members of your team; give them more credit than that. And answer me this – if you were to ask any of them to name the one person responsible for the death of Agent Prentiss, who would they say?"

"That's too simplistic."

"But it matters. To them and to you," Petersen says calmly. "Or, if you were to ask them for help with absolutely anything at all, what would they say? You've worked with them for nearly ten years. It can't have been for nothing."

"So I just… go back? I can't—it's different—ten years, god. Do you even know how long it'll—"

"Or not. A decade and a strong team of agents with integrity. You do not bail, not with those reasons."

"And if I need something different?" There's a spark in his eye. "If I can move somewhere else, do something different, something better than staying?"

Petersen eyes him, his slightly straighter, more determined, no less awkward figure. "Then by all means. I won't discourage you otherwise," he nods slowly. "But resilience is not a sign of weakness, Spencer, quite the opposite. I think you should remember that."

The leaves crunch underfoot – like the click of fingers, like dry bones snapping – the beauty and curse of fall giving him away. The figure in the distance grows larger as he approaches, stiffened stance relaxing slightly. He exhales as his feet crunches his way forward.

"Reid."

"Hotch."

"You came."

"Of course. You left."

Hotch flicks him a glance. "I had to."

"Yeah."

There is a silence that hangs like the leaves of a tree in the heat of summer hang – still and tense and burning and with nowhere to go except fall. They both close their eyes (it feels right), bow their heads (like a child at church, waiting for something to happen), and breathe (like only the living know how).

"How've you been?"

Reid barks a laugh. "Don't."

"I don't have a right to ask?" He raises his eyebrows sardonically.

"You do," he replies. "But you shouldn't care."

"It's been months since I last saw you. Don't tell me whether I should or shouldn't care. I told you months ago, in this very same spot – you are no less a member of my team as any of the others."

"It's not your team anymore, Hotch," he says quietly.

His eyes widen fractionally, sudden pain flitting across his face. There's a brief moment where Reid wonders whether he's gone too far, before he can see the blinds shutter closed in his former supervisor's eyes.

"No, you're right."

"That happens sometimes," he says, trying for levity, unable to hold a weak smile.

"More often than not," Hotch acknowledges with a tilt of his head.

"Doesn't feel like it. A long time ago, maybe."

His feet kick against the bed of leaves, and he imagines what it would be like to play – no cares in the world, no one to look after, no one to keep him accountable, mistakes made to be forgotten, build a tower knock it over start again.

"I don't hate you."

The sudden confession from the older man renders him momentarily speechless. "You should."

"Again, don't tell me what I should or shouldn't do or think. I don't hate you," he repeats. "You need to hear that."

"Hearing and understanding are two different things, Hotch," he says with a broken smile. "I mean, the number of times Morgan or Emily or I heard you and still did our own thing…"

"It's up to you to understand," Hotch says, staring him dead in the eye. "But I can't walk away without you hearing that."

"What, so this is to make you feel better?"

"Yes and no," he admits. "But are you so opposed to the idea that you might not be hated or blamed?"

"Only if it's false."

"And who decides that?"

He kicks at the leaves. "I don't know. But there are some things that just are, and you can't argue with them."

"Reid, I'm too tired to work out if this is one of those things. Can you—can you just accept that this time? God, you think I want it to be this hard, that I want to lie awake every night debating whether it was Em, or me, or you, or any combination of the above that got us here right now? Can you tell me? Because right now, months later, I can't – I still can't – and I'm too fucking tired to hang the blame on anyone other than Kyle Lawrence."

He snorts. "Hotch, you and I both know that even if you say that, we'll spend the rest of our fucking lives re-living and going over the last year."

"Reid—"

"—Okay," he says softly.

"What?"

"Yeah. Okay. I'll accept it," he whispers. "But you have to answer this: why did you leave? Why did you actually leave?"

Hotch laughs humourlessly. "You know, JJ was the first to know. She found me crying in my office at ten-thirty one night. And I told her, and she tried to figure it out, as if it had something to do with Henry and Jack. Which it did, I suppose."

"It wasn't the entire story."

"No, it wasn't," he agrees. "After what happened at the compound, I couldn't see the point of me as the unit chief. An UNSUB is an UNSUB, but all actions have consequences. And I couldn't have, or didn't do enough."

Reid's eyes widen. "Hotch, I'm—"

"—No, we're not doing this again. I know you're sorry."

He nods, thinking it over. Minutes pass, where he scuffs his feet against the mountain of leaves and stares at the bright colours of the flowers in stark contrast with the slate-grey of the headstone. Not unlike the woman herself. "Everyone else thinks it's because of Jack. It's what you told them, and they're not gonna push."

"I wasn't going to tell you," Hotch says evenly. "I was going to tell everyone except you. Until JJ told me how stupid that would be."

Reid shrugs. "Not entirely stupid; you didn't want to complicate it further. But it doesn't matter anyway. Because, like I said, there's no way we'd ever stop thinking about it. Or deserve to."

"We can get better. You can move on."

"She was my friend, Hotch," he hisses. "Maybe not in the same way as she was to you, but still."

His eyes flash, dark pools growing darker still. "We get better, Spencer. It fucking hurts, but we get better."

"Yeah, too little, too late" he says, going back to playing with the leaves. "I—um… I've been seeing a therapist. Petersen, who usually works with Counter-Terrorism. And I—um… I didn't say anything for the first session. Em would have been proud."

"Yeah," Hotch smirks. "She would have. And then she'd have told you about the boxes in her head, and she would have laughed with you for a while, and then she'd have turned serious and told you to keep seeing them."

"Right."

"How's it going?"

"Okay. I don't know," he shrugs. "I'm supposed to pick something."

He looks at the younger man from out of the corner of his eye. "And what have you chosen?"

"I don't know if I can just walk away; this is what I've always done, and it just happened. Which is probably reason enough to move on," he says. "But Petersen, everyone else—"

"—fuck everyone and everything else," Hotch interrupts with harsh laugh. "You go back, because you're a valued team member – and you always have been – and because the team would welcome you back. Or you don't, because you can be better for yourself and for everyone else in this goddamn world if you do something else. This is your chance. Don't fuck it up."

He's silent for a moment, reflective. (god, almost there.) "I'm not the person I want to be."

"Who the fuck is?" Hotch snorts. "One just needs to be good enough. And you are."

"Good enough for what?"

"For the moment," he answers with a twisted smile. "That's all that's ever mattered."

"Sounds like something Emily would have said," Reid says.

"Yeah," he murmurs, releasing a tiny sigh. "I loved her. Still do."

"I know."

"I thought…" He trails off, bending to kneel at the grey stone, tracing a finger tenderly against her name, against the lack of any future between them. He bows his head, almost resting it against the cold cold surface. "Doesn't matter. Karma's a bitch, and it doesn't exist."

Reid exhales, watches his breath mingle in the air in front of him. He tilts his head up to the sky, eyes following the hypnotic movements of the clouds carelessly forming themselves into shapes. It's quiet, and he lets them have the moment.

"What are you going to do now?"

Hotch straightens and slowly stands. "I have a class in an hour. Then I'm going to pick up Jack from school. I'm going to go home, and I'm going to make dinner, and Jack will hopefully not get too mad because I only have carrots and tomatoes left in the fridge."

"How… how is he?"

He regards him carefully. "Better. And better than I am. More resilient than I've ever wished for him to have to be."

"Hotch—"

"—Spencer," he says, voice low and commanding. "We fucked up. We fucked up spectacularly. And you're right; we will both carry this to our graves. Emily deserves better than for us to forget that. But she also deserves better than for us to stay locked in whatever hellhole we've dug ourselves into. She risked her life to keep us safe from Doyle, she sacrificed the only chance she had to be part of a family, she came back to us when she told me it would have been so much easier for her to stay hidden in Europe under three different aliases. She came back, and god, the number of nights she spent in the bathroom with tears down her face, with her gun pointed at the door, just waiting… And she died. She died, still trying to work her way past those seven months of hell, and she died, knowing how proud I was of her. She died knowing how much I—we—fucking loved her. And I finally, finally, got it the other day – she died and she doesn't get a second or a third or a fourth chance. But you and I will never forget that we do. So you go back to the team, or you don't, it doesn't matter. You figure out what you need to do, and you do it, and you don't forget that. And that's all there is."

He gets softer and softer, and Reid tries his best to stop the tears from spilling again. "I feel like I should be angry for longer. Like I should need to be."

"Don't get me wrong – I'm still angry and most days I wake up and I just can't. But I think you and I are too fucking tired right now to want anything more," he replies. "And so, I'm going to go, and I'm going to teach because someone needs to know how people think, and I'm going home. And that's it."

"It's a start," Reid agrees quietly, before nodding and trying to pull himself up. "Can I—I don't know how, or if you'd ever want to, but can I—can I call? And I don't know when, or if I'd ever—it's not like the others, it's different, but—"

"—Whenever," he replies, certain. "It'll never not be my team."

He takes a shaky breath and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "Thank you, sir."

Hotch nods, gives him a brief hug, and steps back. (simple things, spencer. like last time.) The leaves crunch again as he turns away.

(things die and drift and grow again. please rinse and repeat for eternity.)

"Be well, Reid."

a/n: Major thanks to all those who have followed this for the last few years. At times, this has been my favourite thing to write, and at times, it has been so incredibly hard. I'm not quite done with CM (though I stopped watching five seasons ago) and I have at least two more fics planned (one of which is 27 chapters and counting, ha). I'd really love it if you could leave a review here; otherwise, thanks so much for reading anyway.