Author's Note: This is a slight departure for me. I almost always write JJ. This story, however, it called to me. I'm not sure if it works. I hope so. I certainly appreciate your thoughts and comments.

Snow. Everywhere. Cold, rough, slightly dirty clumps of white gathered along the side of every road. Traffic is slow – no, deadlocked - this morning because of it.

Emily Prentiss thinks that somewhere else in the country, maybe in warm temperate California, there are people envying the snow. Dreaming about playing in mounds of gorgeous soft white powder. Envisioning snowball fights full of mirth and mischievous humor.

She laughs and calls them fools.

Right now she's envying a commute without slowdowns.

She glances at her watch, the face on the inside of her wrist. Twenty past eight. Officially late.

"Well maybe you should have planned better."

She sighs. She knows that voice well.

Mother, she calls it.

*** ***

By the time she steps into the bullpen, it's fifteen past nine. She shakes snowflakes out of her hair and peels off a heavy jacket. And then groans loudly enough for anyone to hear, "Coffee."

"Here," a slightly throaty voice says from her side. She feels a coffee cup get pushed into her palm, the heat of the liquid inside warming her slightly frozen hands. She tightens her palms around it, enjoying the tingle that goes through her fingers as they begin to thaw.

She turns, speaking without first seeing the person. She knows the voice well. "JJ, I think I love you."

JJ smiles, blue eyes twinkling. "Uh huh." Wait until I hand you a stack of paperwork to fill out in triplicate."

"Ungh. You have a point. So, have I missed anything?"

"Nope, been pretty quiet. So plenty of time for that paperwork. And when I said triplicate, I actually meant it. Records is starting to be a pain about making sure we have signed copies of everything."

"Oh, good." She's not completely sure if she means that; paperwork days are dull and tedious. On the other hand, at least it means that no one is screaming out for help. That has to be a good thing.

Her sense of calm lasts another ten seconds. Long enough for her to remember it as something peaceful and perfect. It's an exaggeration, but it's what she thinks back to.

The moments before her world got rocked.

They end with her name.

"Prentiss."

She looks up, sees Hotch standing on the second level, in front of his office. His face is somber and immediately she knows that something is wrong.

Something terrible has happened.

She looks over at JJ, who's showing the same sense of worry.

"What's going on?" Emily finally manages, her voice catching just a bit.

"We need to talk."

Another glance over at JJ. Somehow they both know that this has nothing to do with work; this is personal. She feels JJ's hand touch her arm. Lightly. Just enough to make its point.

"I'm here."

She smiles very slightly and then says, "Sure."

She steps away from JJ and heads up towards Hotch. They enter his office silently. He closes the door behind them and motions to the chair in front of his desk.

"Hotch, what's going on?" she asks, not sitting.

"Maybe you should…"

"Hotch…"

"Emily..,"

He rarely calls her by her first name, which means that whatever it is, is worse than…

She stops. Because it all makes so much sense. So much ridiculous sense.

"It's my mother. She's dead, isn't she?"

Dull. Without emotion. Just words.

For a moment, he says nothing. Then, "I'm sorry."

"How?"

He doesn't miss her clinical her tone. To a degree, he had expected this. Her ability to lock away emotion is what makes her the phenomenal agent she is. She can focus on the details while everyone else is dealing with the feelings.

Still, he had figured he'd get some reaction…

"I mean, was it an accident or a heart attack or…"

"Yes," he says softly. "The doctors believe she woke up in the middle of a heart attack. By the time help arrived…"

"Right."

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you." Crisp. The expected response.

"I'm sure you'll need a few days…"

"Just until after the funeral."

"Emily..,"

She looks up and forces a tight smile. "My mother would expect me to keep on doing the work that needs to be done. So that's what I'll do. I'll get her…taken care of and then I'll come back to work."

"Okay. Is there anything I can do to help?"

She blinks. For some reason, this question – this perfectly reasonable and to be expected question – takes her completely by surprise.

"I…no…her body…where is it? Is it still in the Ukraine? I think that's where she is…was…" Her voice wavers a bit, maybe even slightly cracks. There's a slight wildness to her eyes.

He considers reaching out and offering physical contact, but the way she's standing, the rigid starkly uncomfortable stance, it tells him she wouldn't be receptive.

At least not yet.

And maybe not to him.

After all, he is her boss and maybe she doesn't want him to see her so vulnerable. While he hates that, he understands it.

So maybe one of the others then.

When she's ready.

"She's on her way home via military escort."

"Of course." There's a beat as she absorbs this and then, "Can I…can I be excused?" she asks. It's a bizarre question, but he humors it. He can tell that everything in her head is spinning too quickly now.

"Sure. Would you like me to get someone to drive you home?"

"No. I can…I can drive myself."

He nods. "I'll call you this evening."

"You don't need to."

"I want to."

"Okay." Her voice is dull, unfocused.

"One more thing. The others, did you want me to tell them or…"

She pauses, considers this. Then, "That's fine. Go ahead."

And then with that said, she turns and exits his office.

*** ***

She comes down the stairs and sees them standing there, pretending to be having a normal conversation, but she knows they're waiting for her.

And they know she knows.

She offers a quick smile.

"Everything okay?" Derek Morgan asks, trying to be casual about it.

"Yeah," she lies. "I just…I need to run an errand. I'll be back."

She thinks that's mostly true; she will be back. The exact timeline, well, that's not something she wants to think about right now.

Sooner rather than later, though.

Because she figures she'll deal with this as quickly as she can. Call the family. Make the funeral arrangements. Get everything in order.

Get back to work.

Make this all go away.

"Em," JJ says, stepping towards her.

With a shot of panic, she realizes that JJ means to touch her. Offer her comfort.

She thinks Hotch had been about to do the same in his office.

She steps back and away from it. It's abrupt and a bit clumsy, but it makes its point; JJ pulls off, shoving her hands in her pocket instead.

"I'll be back…"

Then she heads for the glass doors of the BAU. And out.

Back into the snow.

*** ***

Everything is fine until she starts really thinking about death.

She deals with it every day, but she's always been pretty good about not really thinking about it.

She is now.

She thinks about her mother's body, lying in a box in the hold of a C-17 Cargo plane.

Cold and lifeless.

Nothing there.

But what if there is something?

Her mind circles back to the old horror story about a man alive for his own autopsy.

She laughs as she thinks about the indignant thoughts her mother would be having.

"Do you know who I am?"

She laughs again. This one is bitter.

She thinks about all the things she'll never get to say to her mother.

How she'll never get to say, "I'm happy," and have her mother believe it.

She wonders if her mother died believing her daughter a failure.

For a moment, she thinks maybe she's having her own heart attack as something physically painful surges through her.

No, she tells herself. She won't do this.

And so she doesn't.

She brings it all back inside. Controls it.

Locks it away.

She figures there will be time for emotions later.

"I see you've finally learned to control yourself, Emily."

She turns slightly and is surprised to see that her mother is now riding shotgun in her SUV. She's dressed – as always – to the nines. She's sitting up ramrod straight. Perfect posture. Proper and dignified.

"Yes, mother," she whispers. "I have."

*** ***

The calls start coming in before she uncorks the bottle of red wine. Names she knows only from the newspaper are reaching out to give their condolences.

"Perhaps now you understand the work I did," Elizabeth Prentiss says from the chair where she's seated, legs tightly crossed.

"I always understood," she mutters as she hangs up the phone after an Ambassador from well…she can't quite remember now… calls to tell her how very truly sorry he is for her loss.

"Did you? You gave little respect to it."

"You gave little respect to my work."

"Pish. You could be doing so much more. Things more important. Bigger things."

"There's something bigger than saving lives?"

"Now don't get dramatic with me…"

The phone rings again, bringing her out of her…whatever. She looks around her empty kitchen and laughs.

No one here.

Just her and her thoughts.

"I'm here, dear and we're not done discussing this."

"Of course not, mother. Not until you're ready to be done."

The phone rings again. She looks down and for the first time, sees a number she recognizes.

"About time he called."

"He probably just found out."

"Maybe if he wasn't half around the world petitioning foreign leaders to save their rain forests, he would have been with me. You know, getting me help."

"That's not fair."

"You always took your father's side."

"I am so not doing this right now."

She picks up the phone, her finger hovering over the call button. She sighs, takes a deep breath, then punches the button. "Hi, Dad."

"Hi, Em," he says. "I just…I just heard. They just told me. I don't know…are you okay?"

"I am. You?"

"I think I'm still in shock. It doesn't quite seem real yet."

"No, it doesn't."

There's a pause and then he asks, "Did you want me to make the arrangements or can you do it."

She's pretty sure she hears her mother snort derisively.

"Whatever you'd like," she offers. They both know that what she's really saying is that she'll take care of it.

Her father sighs. "Good. It's just…I'm still in Africa and it's going to take me a day or so to get back. I want to make sure she's well taken care of in the meanwhile."

"Well taken care of? Really? Could you kindly remind him that I'm currently lying in a wood box in the cargo hold of a jet. Not exactly what I'd call first class service."

"It's not a problem, Dad."

"Good. I should be in by tomorrow evening. I'll call you when I set down."

"Okay."

She waits for him to say more. Finally he does, but it's not what she had hoped for, "Bye, Baby."

"Bye, Dad."

She hangs up and pours herself another glass of wine.

"You should slow down. You don't want to get sloppy. What an embarrassment that would be. To me."

"No different than usual, right?"

She takes a swig.

*** ***

She makes the arrangements as agreed.

A memorial service so that ambassadors and politicians who have been calling all morning and afternoon can gather to talk about how much Elizabeth Prentiss meant to the all world, all while jockeying for someone they know to get the now open position.

A funeral service for close family and friends. That is to say, those who might be in her will.

"You're too cynical, Emily. I had real friends."

She doesn't reply to that, but she doesn't believe it either. The time she spent in and around her mother's circle, it had always seemed so cold and controlled. She had come to realize that politics truly was all about leverage and knowing exactly what being the acquaintance of one person could do for you.

A very calculated game of risks and rewards with people in the middle of it.

It takes her almost an hour to decide on a casket.

"Nothing too fancy. I don't want people to think I'm too extravagant. Nothing too simple though. It's where I'm going to be for well…ever. But please, try to make it something that will last. I'd prefer not to be…"

"Worm-food, mother?"

"How droll."

She smirks. "I try."

Her phone rings. She looks over at it, reads the caller ID.

JJ.

She's slightly surprised. Not that JJ's calling, but that it took her this long.

She considers answering it, but then decides not to because right now, the very last thing she wants to hear is "I'm sorry for your loss."

Even if coming from JJ, it will be real.

"And why is that real? Is it real because you think you know her better? Because you think you know her motives? Are you sure you do?"

She smiles slightly. "You always look for the deception."

"It's always there. Look at you. How much you didn't tell me."

"How much I couldn't, you mean."

"You make me sound like a bad mother."

She has no response for that. So instead, making damned sure to avoid her mother's eyes, she reaches for the wine and finishes off her third glass of it.

*** ***

The wine helps her sleep, but just for a little while.

Her dreams are filled with memories, but she's not sure if they're all real.

She thinks it's a safe bet that she never had a conversation about the pregnancy. And she knows for damn sure that she never told her about nearly getting beaten to death by Cyrus.

She wakes up and makes her way out into the front room, over to the window that looks out on the city. She wraps a blanket around herself and drops down to the floor. She gazes out, stares at the falling snow.

She feels that strange physical pain again, the one around her heart. She places a hand over her chest and closes her eyes.

"You know I always loved you," her mother says from the couch.

"Funny," she replies, not opening her eyes. "You never told me."

"I did…"

"I know. In your own way." There's bitterness and disbelief there.

And then silence.

She pulls the blanket tighter around her, then presses her cheek up against the glass and feels the cold.

*** ***

She's still sleeping against the window when she hears the knock. Slowly, groggily, she pushes herself to her feet and makes her way to the door. She cracks her back as she does so, wincing as her body creaks.

"You shouldn't answer the door looking that. Whoever is there will think you were…well it doesn't look good is all I'm saying."

"That's never all you're saying," she mutters, stopping just long enough to wave a hand through her hair. She opens the door.

"Hotch."

"Morning," he says. He holds up a bag and a coffee cup. "Chocolate croissant. Black coffee."

"You didn't have to."

"I know."

She takes it from him and ushers him inside.

"You're inviting your boss into your home? That's a thin line, don't you think?"

She sighs.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah. It was just…a long night." She holds up the bag and cup. "Thank you."

"No problem. Is there anything else I can do? The others would like to know, too."

"So they've said on my voicemail. Five times each."

"They worry." She thinks maybe he smiled. Just a bit.

"I know and I appreciate it."

"I wanted to let you know that we'll all be attending the memorial tomorrow."

"You guys don't- thank you."

He nods.

A moment of silence passes and he takes a step towards the door. "I should get going."

"Well you're quite the hostess, I see."

She wants to tell her mother to shut up, but thinks that her boss might think her crazy if she does. And so instead, she forces a thin smile.

"Is there a case?"

"Trying to get away from me so soon?"

"No, just still a lot of paperwork."

"You will call me if there's a case, right?"

"I'll take that as a yes."

"No. You don't need to worry about. You need to deal with this."

There's something in his words, something that tells her that he knows this isn't as simple as coping with the loss of a parent.

This is about something she doesn't know how to deal with.

Emotions. Feelings.

"A waste of valuable energy."

"I knew you'd say that," she replies, speaking to both of them.

"Again," he tells her. "Anything you need, you let me know."

She smiles and holds the door open for him. He nods once more and exits. She shuts the door behind him.

"Look, I'm not saying don't mourn me."

"I didn't say I was." She turns to face her mother. "Don't you think it's weird that I deal with death every day, but I don't know how to deal with this?"

"I think you have some issues you need to deal with."

"Yeah? You mean like the one where even my own head, I can't get my mother to approve of me?"

"It's not that simple, Emily."

"Isn't it? Then let me make it very simple. What have I done that you actually approve of? Tell me, Mother. There has to be something."

"Emily…"

"That's what I thought. Don't worry, Mother; I'll play my part and I'll play it well. I'll be the perfect daughter during the funeral. I'll only speak well of you. Maybe you can be proud of that." She turns away and looks out the window. It's still snowing, a sheet of white blanketing the city.

"Emily…"

"In the meanwhile, do something for me for once. I'll have no choice, but figure out how to deal with you tomorrow, but for today, please, go away."

She hears no response. She turns back and sees that she's alone in the room.

"Great," she whispers. "Thanks."

*** ***

The day goes pretty much the way the previous one had. Quickly and full of forced conversations.

She uses Google more than two dozen times to figure out whom she's speaking to. She says thank you for the "kind words" more times than she can count.

At just after nine at night, she makes her way to the airport and picks up her father. They talk about her mother in quick flashes, memories that are easy.

"Do you remember when we went to Egypt when you were ten? How excited your mother was?"

She doesn't tell him that her memory of that trip is significantly less enthusiastic than his. She remembers Egypt being more a diplomatic lesson than a historical one. She remembers hating all of the handshakes and important people who seemed to be so impressed by how well behaved she was.

She remembers wanting to spit out a mouthful of dreadful tasting Egyptian tea, but knowing that if she had, her mother would have possibly channeled the exorcist in all of her rage.

Still, she plays long because her father needs her to.

She plays for the game for him.

She figures it's good practice for the memorial.

She's thankful when he turns in for the night, retiring to her guest room.

After he does, she makes her way to the closet in the front room and opens the door. Inside she sees many artifacts from the past. An old acoustic guitar that a boyfriend had given her. A framed diploma from college.

There are several cardboard boxes, too. Full of albums with pictures from her childhood. She's never been quite sure why she's kept them; there's so much in them that she would prefer to forget.

She opens the box and pulls two of the albums out. They both have dates and locations on them. She opens the one that says Egypt.

It's mostly full of pictures of landscape. Pyramids, sand, stuff like that.

But there's one of the family, too. Posed in front of a massive government building. Mother on one side, Father on the other. Neither smiling more than their tightly practiced one. And in the middle, ten year old Emily. Miserable.

She closes the album and makes her way into her bedroom, arms wrapped around to keep away the cold that is seeping into her bones.

*** ***

It's still snowing in the morning. She dresses slowly and in dark colors. She's not wearing any of the slacks or v-neck sweaters that her mother so detests.

"I don't hate them. I just think they're…well…manly."

"Oh, good, you're back," she replies, turning to see her mother standing against the wall. She doesn't look near as comfortable now, seeming oddly a bit uncertain, maybe even a bit scared.

She decides that that makes no sense. After all, all of this is in her head.

"Does it matter if I'm in your head? I'm still here."

"Yes, you are."

"Em?" a voice says from the hallway. "Who you talking to?"

"No one," she calls back.

There's a pause and then, "Okay. You about ready?"

"Yeah, one moment."

She looks at herself in a mirror. She's wearing a dress. She hates dresses.

"You can do this for me though, right? Just for today. It's not like I'm asking a lot."

"Sure. It's just dress-up."

"I wasn't that bad of a mother." It's the second time she's said this. This time, she sounds like she's pleading.

"No, but you weren't that good, either."

"Whatever mistakes you hate me for, whatever sins I'm guilty of, you need to find a way to forgive me for them. For both of us."

"Can we just get this over with, please?"

Her mother straightens herself, her posture becoming – if possible – even more rigid. Even more cold and controlled.

"Fine."

"Fine."

*** ***

The memorial goes just as she expects it to. She gets good at half-hugs and peck kisses in a hurry. She's asked numerous times if she plans to follow her mother into politics. The Prentiss name has gravitas, she's told. She can go places if she wants to. She's offered at least a dozen business cards.

When she says she's happy in her job, as an FBI agent, she gets a lot of raised eyebrows. A lot of looks that say that they don't believe her.

She smiles and tells each of these people that there's someone she needs to see.

And then she repeats the conversation with that person as well.

The whole time, her mother wanders around, taking everything in, commenting in snarky tones on the fashions of the mourners.

Apparently very few people know how to properly dress for the funeral of someone as dearly respected as Elizabeth Prentiss.

"That's not fair."

"Neither is having you in my head," she mutters, making sure no one hears. Because explaining why she's talking to herself – well that would be all sorts of fun.

"Emily."

She turns and feels a rush of relief as she takes in a familiar face.

"Derek."

"Hey," he says. He steps towards her and hugs her. It's the first real one she's had today. "I'm so sorry," he whispers into her ear.

She doesn't reply. She just wants to enjoy the familiar and non-judgmental safety that he represents. She feels vaguely sorry for so selfishly taking it from him, but that doesn't mean she lets the embrace end before it has to.

When she finally steps away from him, she sees the others there. The whole team. She steps towards them. Lets them touch her. Feels the sanity and security they represent.

For the first time, she thinks she might actually get through this.

"It's not safe to put so much trust into these people." She says the word "trust" like it's sacred.

Emily turns away from her, ignores her.

*** ***

When it's all over, when the casket has finally been lowered into the snow-covered ground, she walks away from the small crowd and stares up at the darkening sky. It's close to four and the night is coming quickly. She can feel the stinging of snowflakes against her cheeks.

"Hey, kiddo," her father says, coming up behind her. She finds herself wishing that he would break character and do something unusual.

Like hold her.

But of course, he won't. Especially not in public.

"He knows how it would look," her mother says, standing right next to him.

Her jaw twitches. She wants to scream back that she doesn't care how it would look. But she knows how that would look.

"Em?"

"Sorry." She reaches into her purse, she pulls out her keys. "Here."

"What are these for?"

"To get you back into the loft."

"Where are you going?"

"I need to get some air."

"It's going to snow again and it's getting dark. I'm not sure I'm okay with just walking around this city by yourself."

"He has a point. You never know what you'll run into around here."

"Don't worry; I have my gun with me."

"You do?"

"Of course. I'll see you back at the loft."

"Em?"

"What?"

"I know today was hard, but I want you to know, your mother would have been proud of you today. You represented her well."

"He's right. You did."

"Yeah," she says, unable to stop just a hint of bitterness. "I know. I'll see you in a bit, Dad."

*** ***

She had meant to walk, but somehow those steps had taken her into a little pub on the side of town.

"Start pouring," she tells the bartender. "I'll tell you when to stop."

"Sure," he replies, handing her a full glass of pale ale.

"Well this is certainly distasteful."

"So," the bartender says. "What is it? Money? Lover? Family?"

"Family."

"Ah."

"My mother died."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. She was…well she was terrible at it."

"Well that's an awful thing to say."

"Really?"

"You doubt me?" Emily asks.

"No. You know better than I being that I don't know your mother at all."

"True."

"So tell me, what'd she do?"

"She wished I could be someone else."

"That's not true."

"Ouch."

"Yeah."

"Parents can be like that. They have all these insane expectations and hopes and dreams for their kids. They don't stop to remember that their kids aren't them."

"You sound like you have experience."

"You imagine my mom was thrilled with me being a bartender?"

"Certainly not," Elizabeth Prentiss sniffs.

Emily laughs. "Some things never change."

"Right. But you know the thing is, even though she's not happy, doesn't mean she's still not proud in their own weird way. They just don't know how to show it like normal people do. My mom? She sends me letters full of ways to get myself into medical school. Thing is, they're always signed 'love mom'. Doesn't seem like much, but I get it. It's her thing."

"I don't think my mother had a thing."

"That's not true."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I."

"Still, there had to be something," he presses.

"There was."

"Not that I remember."

"But still you're conflicted."

"Yeah."

"Which means there was something."

"Then why can't I remember it?"

"Because for some reason, you don't want to."

"I dunno. I'm just the bartender here."

She laughs. "Right."

"Want a refill?"

"You know what? No. I need to…I need to figure this out. I need to go." She pulls out two twenties and put them on the bartop.

"Good luck in your search."

"Thanks."

*** ***

She knocks on the door of the townhouse three times and is turning to walk away when she sees it finally open.

"Em? You okay?"

"Hey, JJ, I'm sorry if it's too late."

"No, not at all. Come in."

"Actually, JJ, I was hoping you'd come out here. It feels good."

"You have a strange sense of 'feels good.'"

"It's snowing," JJ says, eyebrow up.

"I know."

"Okay. Let me tell Will what I'm doing. One sec."

"Sure." She watches JJ disappear into the townhouse. She turns back to look at her mother, who is now shivering.

"What? It's freezing."

"It's not so bad."

"Nor was I."

Before she can reply, JJ steps outside and shuts the door behind her. "So, what's up? Are you okay?"

"No."

"Right. Stupid question."

"No, it's a good question. Problem is, I don't know why I'm not okay."

"What are you talking about? Losing your mother –"

"No, I understand why I shouldn't be okay. I get it. Losing my mother is a terrible thing. Thing is, my mother and I, we didn't have a relationship. She would call me every now and again, ask if I had considered taking a job in the state department and when I'd say that I planned to stay at the BAU, she'd tell me she had a meeting to get to."

"I'm sure she only wanted the best for you."

"I did."

"Is that what you want for Henry?"

"Excuse me?"

"I don't…I'm sorry, I don't mean to ask anything weird or uncomfortable. It's just, well I don't think I have a clue what an actual parent-child relationship is supposed to be like. I mean I get it from a profiling point of view and I understand it psychologically, but…"

JJ suddenly reaches across and hugs her. "Shh."

"I'm sorry. I…"

"No, it's okay. Come on, we're going inside. No arguing. It is cold out here." She reaches out and takes Emily's hand and pulls her up.

*** ***

Will brings her a cup of hot chocolate and then asks her no less than three times if he can make her something to eat. She politely declines the first two offers and then finally relents on the third.

Looking satisfied and a bit pleased, Will moves off towards the kitchen.

JJ re-enters the living room, bundled up Henry in her arms. "Sorry about that," she says. "He comes from a family that believes you're only happy if you're eating. It's a wonder I don't weight four hundred pounds."

"Sounds nice."

JJ smiles. Then gets down to business. "In my perfect fantasy, my perfect dream, Henry grows up to be something safe and successful. I'm thinking doctor."

"And if he doesn't?"

"I want him happy."

"That's all I wanted, too."

She looks across the room, isn't surprised to see her mother now seated on one of JJ's couches. She's glancing around at the plain and unassuming décor, taking it in with a bit of upper class snobbery.

"Everyone says that, JJ, but what does it mean? I mean, what if Henry decides he wants to be a professional skateboarder."

"Not my preference."

"Would you be on him for it?"

"I like to think I wouldn't."

"JJ…"

"I know what you're getting at, Emily. You want me to say that my parenting style is different than you mother's. But you already know that. "

"Yeah."

"But that doesn't mean she loved you less."

"You don't have to say that."

"You're right. I don't. And I'm not. I'm saying it because I believe it. Your mother, she was an impressive woman in many ways."

"I like her."

"And in many ways, she wasn't."

"Less now."

Emily couldn't quite stop herself from smiling. Just a bit.

"But the one thing I know for certain is that she loved you. She didn't show it like most mothers, but she did show it."

"And how do you know that?"

"She trusted you to fix a problem for her."

"I don't understand."

"Yes, you do."

"Yes, you do," JJ said softly. "In her job, in her world, trust means more than love. She trusted almost no one. Maybe your father. Certainly you."

"She's right."

"You saw that?"

"Yes. She trusted you more than anyone in her life. And I didn't need to be a profiler to see it."

For a moment, Emily can say nothing. She swallows back the surging emotion – the pain in her chest again – and mumbles out, "Thanks."

"Anytime. " JJ replies, sliding an arm around her back. She pulls her close, into a half-hug. Then, "Now, I hope you're hungry. Knowing Will, he's already cooked three courses."

Emily smiles. She glances across the room, sees her mother watching her, eyes looking cloudy and maybe a bit wet. "Starved," she finally replies.

*** ***

She gets back to her loft just after ten. The first thing she hears when she steps inside is the sound of an acoustic guitar.

"Dad?"

"Hey, baby, in here."

She steps into the living room and sees her dad playing the guitar from the closet.

"Found it in your closet."

"You were in my closets?"

"I got bored and you never know what you'll find."

"Uh huh. That sounds loaded."

He smiles. "Everything in life is, baby. It's always more complicated than you think. Even your mother."

"I know. I…know." She lets that hang between them for a moment and then feeling a bit uncomfortable, forces a yawn. "If you don't mind, I'm heading to bed. I'm whooped."

"Goodnight, baby."

"Night, dad…daddy."

*** ***

She lays in her bed, clutching the picture of her family, the one from their time in Egypt.

The tears come quickly. She turns and presses her face into her pillow, biting down on the fabric to keep her father from hearing.

Within seconds though, she doesn't care. She's shaking, everything cutting through her like fire.

It all hurts so much.

She feels strong arms encircle her, hears her father's voice.

She thinks for a moment that she's far too old for this. And then she turns into him and presses her face into his shirt.

"I miss her, too," he says.

She says nothing, just clings to him.

Like he'll be gone tomorrow.

And if he is, like there won't be time to say the things that need to be. Like there won't be the time to forgive the sins of the past.

"There's always time."

She looks up from her father's shirt. Expects to see her mother standing by the bed.

She sees only the walls of her room.

"It's okay, baby, it's okay," she hears her father whisper.

Her eyes drift past him, out towards the window looking out over the city.

Where she can see the snow still falling.

White and cold.

-FIN