AN: Welp—I can safely say this is the lengthiest delay between chapters I've ever committed. I honestly thought it would be easy to come up with the third chapter to this story—I kept waiting for a good story cue. And waiting... and waiting... Finally, I was *thisclose* to deleting the whole thing, figuring it for a lost cause and then the season premiere happened and I got my story cue.

By the time this goes up, the second ep will have aired Stateside and I'm sure things will diverge completely from my happy little missing scene, but here it is. For the dozen of you who might have read it first time around, thank you for reading.

Third Time

The third time.

Oh…the third time.

It was a long time coming. So long, it was almost a foregone conclusion in his head that it would never happen.

So he'd tried to move on.

While she, for the most part, stayed away for the better part of four years. There had been the odd return of course—the moment Hotch had called about JJ's abduction she hadn't even waited for him to finish explaining before she said she was on her way and he could brief her on the plane.

Those scant six hours she had remaining in the case's aftermath had not surprisingly been spent at Rossi's. It was, after all, historically the scene for most of their family gatherings. They'd made their way from the bar to gather in his leather-and-wood den, nursing Scotches and brandies and chatting quietly amongst themselves. The team had the next few days off, so there'd been no rush to leave, as if all of them were loathe to let go of the oh-so-familiar rhythms that made them more family than team. That night, she'd made a point to spend time with each of them individually, no particular rhyme or reason as to her order—no signals to be inferred, either consciously or sub. The only indication she'd given that she was aware of what had transpired in his life in the past year was her quiet, "If you ever need to talk—about anything—you know you can call me, right? Day or night." as she'd hugged him goodbye.

It came as no surprise she knew about Maeve. Even less surprising was that she'd chosen to address it in a manner so oblique as to seem innocuous. What did surprise him, however, was the expression of tenderness contained within the glancing touch to his cheek as she'd released him. Admittedly, inference through touch was not one of his strong suits, but then, she'd always known how to communicate with him via physical expression. Ever since the cult, she was able to convey more to him with touch than with the words which were so often a smokescreen for both of them.

They couldn't hide behind touch.

If asked to make an educated guess, he would have said there was a very small statistical probability that any future returns on her part could be fraught with even more drama.

Then again, he would have surmised the statistical probability of Derek Morgan ever leaving the BAU was even smaller.

But there they were, sans Morgan and with Emily suffering the twin burdens of guilt and shame for having used her power and position to go over a colleague's head and as a result, sending a young D.I. to her death at the hands of a serial killer.

And while they'd thankfully resolved the case, he also knew from experience she would carry shadows of that guilt and shame with her for the rest of her life—that it would become an indelible part of her psyche. He wished he could tell her it would get better with time, but then again, she probably knew that. She was, after all, the queen of compartmentalization. Still, he was sorely tempted to gift her with the same offer she had made him two years earlier. That she could call at any time. Day or night. However, during the team's dinner before her return to London, he'd reevaluated whether or not he would even need to. Seated across the table from her, he'd noted that she looked exhausted as one might expect, but lighter than he had seen in some time, even given the circumstances. And he knew, as the evening progressed, that a good deal of that lightness had to do with the mysterious Mark, over whom Garcia, Rossi, and JJ had teased her mercilessly.

So.

She'd moved on too. Not that there'd been anything for her to move on from.

And whose fault was that? his inner voice chided. She might never have left had you exhibited an ounce of spine.

I had to let her go, he'd argued back. She needed to do this. For herself.

Still, though—certain though he might have been in that assertion, it didn't stop a nasty little shard of jealousy from piercing his heart.

He wanted to be happy for her, he truly did. And on some level, he was. She had spent so much of her life independent to the point of loneliness. Adrift and rootless in a manner that had sent her halfway around the world more than once in search of something—anything—to which she could fully lay claim as her own. The closest she'd come, he knew, was with them. The team genuinely was her family and she would never fully cut herself off from them. But now there was Mark.

Which was why her return to work with them had come as such a surprise. The explanation it was only temporary, tempered some of the surprise and served to dampen the sharp flare of happiness he'd experienced at her arrival.

Only temporary.

She would be returning to London and Interpol…and Mark.

But she brought doughnuts. She brought his favorite doughnuts. She'd made a point of chiding him, saying there was no way she could forget which doughnuts were his favorites.

He was an idiot. He knew this.

But for a few weeks, a very happy idiot.

Especially once her return was made permanent. Muted somewhat, yes, at the knowledge that Hotch and Jack were lost to them forever and with the specter of Scratch hanging over their heads and his mother's worsening condition tapping his emotional reserves. But she was there. With them.

And while he wasn't one to believe in invisible cloud deities, he found himself wondering what invisible hand of fate might have brought her back just when he would need her most. Because he would not have survived had she not been there. It wasn't hyperbole on his part—he literally would not have survived, be it physically or mentally, had Emily Prentiss not been there for him.

It hadn't been without its bumps. She was, after all, a cynic and human and had been an agent for too many years for there not to be moments of doubt. And while in the moment he might have been incandescently angry with her, he understood, with that analytical part of his brain divorced from all the emotion he felt with respect to her, precisely what she had been thinking. After all, presented with the same evidence or lack thereof, he would have likely thought exactly the same.

But when it came down to it, she had put it all on the line for him. Had risked everything she'd ever worked for.

For him.

So that when she'd been taken by Scratch, he'd been in turns coldly determined and emotionally overwhelmed. It was all too much. Too many things, happening too close a succession, and if after all of this, he lost her for good, he would have no one but himself to blame.

It would have to be him. He would have to solve the puzzle of Scratch. For Hotch and Jack. For his mother. For Emily.

He would have to be the one to end him. The only way to know it was over, once and for all, would be to land a bullet in the son of a bitch's brain.

Ironic, then, the only reason he didn't, was because of Emily.

Because she'd needed him.

After everything she'd done for him the past year—the past ten years—she had finally needed him.

In that moment, he was her reality.

And from the second she'd thrown herself into his arms, she hadn't let go. Literally, she'd not gone more than a handhold's distance from him, even as the paramedics had checked her out and the rest of the team had arrived to swarm them, asking if she was really all right and she had assured them that yes—yes, she was.

They had to have noticed how she clutched his hand or leaned fully into him. How he hadn't drawn away, but rather had kept an arm around her, remaining uncharacteristically quiet as she answered all their questions. They were the best profilers in the country, so he knew they noticed. But to their credit, they said nothing. Perhaps Rossi's eyebrows rose a fraction when Emily turned to Spencer and with a weary sigh, murmured, "Give me a ride home?" but beyond that, not so much as a peep from any of them. Not even Garcia.

Arriving at her brownstone, she met his gaze steadily and waited for his nod before releasing his hand only long enough for both of them to climb from the SUV. Inside, she quieted his murmured suggestions that she'd feel better if she showered or he could order something for her to eat with another dark gaze over her shoulder as she led them up the stairs to her room. Fully clothed, save for the shoes they kicked off, they lay together on her bed, her arm draped across his stomach as her head found a comfortable niche on his shoulder.

All night, she held on, as if terrified the reality of him would disappear if she so much as let go. Dawn was only beginning to limn the horizon with a silver-gold hue when he finally broke the silence that had enveloped them.

"You know I wanted to kill him."

"Yes."

"At the warehouse—" He hesitated, but he had to know. Even in the wake of having spent an entire night with her in his arms, holding on with no seeming intention of letting go any time soon, he had to know for certain.

"Did you keep me from going after him because you truly needed me or because you were trying to…protect me?"

"Both." Her voice was raspy with the past several hours' ordeals. He should have made her tea when they arrived. Made her drink water. Made her—

Who was he kidding? He could no more make Emily Prentiss do something against her will than he could move the sun. Or make her see him as something other than the baby of the group. Helpless Spencer. Poor delicate Reid, who couldn't be expected to carry the burden of cold-bloodedly killing a monster.

"Spencer—"

He was so caught in the maelstrom of self-pitying emotion that it took the touch of her hand to his cheek, turning his head so he could meet her gaze to bring them to a screeching halt.

"You've had a really, really crappy few months. Year, really, if you take into account everything with your mother."

"Yeah…"

Her hand moved from cheek to forehead, her thumb rubbing between his brows in an effort to ease the tension that had settled there as if on cue.

"I understand your desire to end him—God knows how much I wanted to do the deed myself."

"They why—"

Her hand dropped to his mouth, stilling the predictable flood of words. "If I had thought you were the only one who could possibly take Scratch down, there's no way I would have stopped you." The early morning light seeping into the room threw her face into stark relief, highlighting the bruises and abrasions on her fair skin and the shadows lurking deep within her gaze. Nevertheless, it remained steady on his face, holding him captive as it had so many times over the last decade.

"But Luke and Matt were there and they were more than capable and in that moment—that split-second—I needed you."

"And if JJ or Rossi had been there? Would you have let me go then?" And could he be any bigger of an idiot? Why was he incapable of accepting things at face value. Of just letting things go? The woman he'd loved in some form or another for the better part of a decade had admitted to needing him—and even if it wasn't in the way he might have wanted, it was something and—

"Spencer—"

Her tone was exasperated, her expression serious, but with an undeniable hint of amusement lurking about the edges.

"I'm pretty certain I still would have needed you. You, more than anyone, represent what's most real to me." The edges of her mouth twitched. "Besides, JJ's a better shot than you."

"I took Chloe Donaghey out from approximately fifty yards and at a fifty-seven degree angle," he retorted automatically, amending it with a sheepish, "More or less."

Her mouth curved into a faint, yet undeniably fond smile. "That you did. And saved me and Declan in the process."

Her hand shifted to his hair, gently stroking the long, unruly mess of it. "We may not have had a hand in physically taking Peter Lewis out, Spence, but fact is, we both played a large part in figuring him out. We saw through his deceptions and machinations and finally brought him to his inevitable downfall. Isn't that enough?"

He shivered as her fingers delved further into his hair, her short nails grazing his scalp and the sensitive skin at his nape. "I guess."

"He's dead, Spencer."

"I know." He also knew they weren't necessarily done speaking about him, but that for the moment, it was over.

For the first time, he took the initiative, reaching up to grasp the hand in his hair and bring it down between them. He wrapped his hand around hers and held it against his chest, his breath catching at the feel of her fingers flexing, as if she was physically trying to hold his heart.

He wanted to tell her, literal or metaphorical, she'd had it for a long time now. But those words seemed like too much, too soon. Laughable, when one considered how long he'd harbored his feelings, but that was then. They were both different now—him, especially. His time in prison had assured that the last of the boy he'd been was, if not fully gone, then a good deal more wary and watchful.

For the first time, he felt as if they were on equal footing. He was a man she no longer knew. Whom she might not even want to know.

Liar. She knows you better than anyone. Don't be a coward now.

"What now, Emily?"

For the first time since he'd found her, she retreated, her expression closing off. "What now is Stephen's funeral. And after…I suspect the Bureau will want us to take mandated time, and—"

"Emily."

"I don't know."

Uncertainty. That he could deal with.

"You risked everything for me."

"You're worth it."

"You said I'm your reality."

"And I meant it."

"So…what now?"

Her hand turned beneath his, lacing their fingers together. "Are you coming back to the team?"

He hesitated, not at all certain. He hadn't thought that far ahead. In prison, he'd had to learn how not to think any further ahead than the next hour. That's how one survived.

"I don't know yet."

"But you won't leave, will you?"

"Leave?" His brows drew together. "As in, D.C.?"

She nodded and her fingers tightened around his, as if to physically anchor him to the city.

"No. This is my home. You're…all my family." Dammit, even now he was protecting himself. He had to stop. If this chance were to have any opportunity of success at all, he had to stop protecting himself. No matter how terrifying a prospect that was. "And you, Emily…"

She stared up him, bruised, exhausted, and undeniably beautiful. "And me?"

"You're…more."

She sagged against him, an enormous sigh gusting across his skin, as if she'd been holding her breath this entire time.

"I'll be honest, Spencer, I don't know what the hell's going on, or what to expect, or what this is or might be…" She tilted her head back, her gaze finding his once more. "But what I do know is I can't let you go without trying to figure it out."

For the first time in what felt like years, he felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. "Ironic coming from the one who always left before." He kept his tone mild, hoping she understood he meant it more as observation than rebuke.

"Jerk." An elbow nudged his ribs. Good. She understood.

"Emily, I—"

She shook her head, forestalling him yet again. "We have time, Spencer. And it's taken this long to get here. Can we be patient, just a little longer?"

He understood all she wasn't saying. They were riding the twin waves of emotional high and exhaustion. Anything said now couldn't fully be trusted. So he settled for taking their joined hands, raising them to his mouth, and pressing a gentle kiss to her skin then leaning forward and pressing and equally gentle kiss to her lips. Nothing more than a benediction—his silent promise to her.

He met her expectant gaze across the table. True to her promise, she'd neither pressed nor enquired. Just let him come to his decision on his own. And truth be known, until that moment, he hadn't been certain what his final decision about this one last thing would be. Everything else had been simple—rather, as simple as a decision ten years in the making could be. But what to do about this had eluded him. Now, it seemed the easiest thing in the world.

This was where they'd started. It was inextricably intertwined with who they were. To not be there was suddenly unimaginable.

His smile was faint and meant just for her.

"Wheels up."