Pairing: JJ/Emily, femslash

Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of CBS and the Criminal Minds writing staff. I write for fun, not profit.

Emily Prentiss tapped her pen absently on the desk, her eyes unfocused and a headache creeping slowly up to the center of her forehead. She was completely exhausted; as strong as she was, or at least as strong as she was accustomed to being, the events of the last several days used every last physical and emotional reserve she had left. The loss of her friend Matthew Benson, the sight of him on an autopsy table, the guilt that consumed her as she understood just how much she had abandoned him—it should have been painful enough. Matthew had stood up for her and held her hand at a time when she was most abandoned, and yet when he needed her, she was nowhere to be found. His last days and hours were terrifying, and she had done nothing to ease the horror that gripped his heart. Because she had left him years ago to face it all alone. His death was all she thought she could bear without breaking.

Time stretched so strangely for her, rushing through her fingers like the winds of a bitter fall storm, and yet sometimes it seemed to take so long for her to take one step, say one word, lift one hand...every second weighed on her like gravity, pushing her closer and closer to the ground until she crumbled. When she saw John on the bed, screaming at the priest and straining against the straps that bound him to the bedposts, she panicked. Every scream, every drop of blood tore through her, left her raw and cold. Just for a moment, and then Morgan was finally able to grab the priest and lead him away from the room. Once the priest was gone, she worked feverishly to untie John, who was at once so scared and so relieved that he didn't even wait for both hands to be freed before he wrapped his arms around Emily, clinging to her until enough of the fear had passed that he could sit up and try to walk a little. She knew he needed that, to be able to lean on her but still to feel for himself the ground beneath his feet. She couldn't support Matthew when he needed her, but she would make damned sure that John knew she wouldn't leave him until he was ready to stand on his own.

Sighing, Emily rubbed her eyes and looked at the clock on the wall of her study. 3:24 AM. The page before her was still blank but for the date and the greeting, even though she had been "working" on this letter for the last several hours. Jennifer Jareau. She couldn't get past the name enough to write. She would pick up the pen, and then remember that she was writing it for JJ, and her hand would automatically stop moving. Emily was not a person who wrote many letters; truth be told, other than official correspondence, there hadn't ever been many people to whom Emily felt she could write. Despite the thousands of people she'd met at one of the Ambassador's functions or in the cities and countries she'd lived in as a child, she never had more than a handful of people she could trust to see her as she really was, and most of those people were her mother's staff. Except for Matthew, and now JJ. JJ was the first person in many years who could communicate with her without saying a single word, who would search Emily's face and eyes until she understood what Emily needed, and then gave it to her with her whole being: a word, a phrase, a hug, a touch, a squeeze of the hand, time, space—whatever she needed, JJ always figured out what it was and made sure she had it. And Emily was so affected by all that JJ did for her that the mere thought of it stayed her hand every time.

But this letter had to be written. She needed the advantage of time and editing and distance so that she could finally make clear to JJ all that she meant to her. Her reasons were mostly pragmatic. Since Will had moved in with JJ during her pregnancy and then stayed to help raise Henry, JJ and Emily did not get to spend as much time together one-on-one as she would have liked. Even the countless hours Auntie Emily got to spend with Henry when she visited JJ's house felt brief and a little awkward because of Will. She knew that she connected on a level with JJ that Will would not understand, and because of that, she was not free during these visits to fully relax and be herself. This letter was her way of finally getting through to JJ, finally starting the conversation she'd been putting off for years. And because she was writing the letter on a weekend and hand-delivering it, JJ would have the time she needed to process what she read and respond to it without creating any awkwardness when they returned to work the following Monday.

If she was honest with herself, which she never was very easily, Emily knew that not all of her reasons for writing were completely pragmatic. Though there many distinct advantages to the written word over the spoken word, there was also an implicit cowardice. Emily was writing because she wanted to hide behind her pen and paper. She was writing because words, once spoken, weren't boomerangs; you could never get them back once they were released. But when you wrote, there was always a chance that the letter would get lost or wet or torn up or otherwise ruined before the recipient ever got to read it. And it was oddly comforting to her that JJ might not get the letter and she wouldn't have to worry about how her words might change their relationship. Sure, the status quo might be making her completely miserable, but it was a misery that she knew quite well, and had adjusted to over the years. It was familiar; she knew its demands and learned long ago how to meet them. She picked up the pen again and warred briefly with herself over whether it was worth it to assume the risks that her relationship with JJ might change for the better, that she would be able to offer her heart to JJ and that JJ would be willing to accept it and offer hers in return, given the equal risks that their relationship might change for the worse, and irrevocably so. She might destroy a family, or she might gain one. She might even do both. She paused for a moment, sucked in one large gulp of air, and began to write.

Dear JJ,

It's a few hours before sunrise as I write this. I should probably be sleeping, but I know that if I gave in and crawled into bed right now, it would be months or longer before I found the courage to write again. By that time, I might have forgotten what it was I wanted to say to you, and that would be a grievous loss for me. Maybe for you, too. Who knows?

You might be wondering why I chose to write to you when we work together and see each other often because of work and Henry. You might be wondering if there could be anything left for two people to say to each other after spending all of those hours together. You could be right; it could all be nothing, but I have to say it anyway and let you be the judge of its merit. I want my words to be worthy of you; I want to be worthy to you. No one else understands me like you do, and no one else has been so patient with me without being asked, so I hope you will indulge me for a little while longer while I share this message with you.

I have been thinking a great deal for the last several days, especially the last few hours since we rescued John from the priest and put this case to rest. When it was all over, I walked several miles back to the church and stood in the street, staring at the cathedral doors and stained glass and the huge doors in the entry. I wondered about those doors. How could something so large and so heavy, so difficult to open be a sign of welcome, entreating anyone in search of refuge, solace, comfort, to enter? I stood there for so long that it took a small nosebleed to shake me awake. I was shivering violently because of the snow, and probably had been for the better part of an hour. I waited for the bleeding to stop, wiped the remaining blood on my sleeve, and hailed a cab back to my house. I have been here ever since, standing at my window taking in the view of the Capitol as night faded.

I am writing in part to apologize to you. I am so sorry that I have been preoccupied and irritable and distant with you during this case. I know I have acted that way with everyone in the team, but it seems to have hurt you more than it has the others, and I have never wanted to be the cause of anything but happiness in you. I know I haven't been easy to put up with, and I hope that you will find it in yourself to forgive me and let me make it up to you in whatever manner you see fit.

When Matthew died, part of my life was ripped from me. Again. I told you that he, John, and I were friends during the few months I spent in Italy while my mother was posted there. That much was true, but there is more to the story that I was not yet ready to share. I held out on you, and once again, I am so sorry. It's not that I don't trust you; I trust you completely, literally with my life. It's that I don't, or didn't, yet trust myself that I would be able to explain to you, without breaking down, the real significance of Matthew's chapter in my life. I needed a little time and distance so that I could get it right. You and Matthew both deserve that.

Matthew, John, and I met when I was fifteen. Among all of the other children of diplomats and businesspeople with us in Rome, only the three of us seemed to get along. I had moved around so many times by then because of the Ambassador that I knew the "new kid" drill by heart. I ingratiated myself to anyone I could find who showed an interest in me in return. It wasn't long before the three of us were inseparable, bonded not just by our affection for one another, but also by the fact of our shunning by the other kids. We were still so young, and I was still new to the idea of having real friends, so my relationships with John and Matthew took on a huge and confusing significance. What we had was almost love, and almost was more than I had ever had, so I embraced it. One night, John and I stretched our almost love as far as it could go, and I ended up pregnant.

John was terrified of me, of us, after that first night and even more so when he learned of my pregnancy. He kept his distance, and it wasn't long before he had completely disappeared. Matthew stepped in to pick up the pieces. He took my hand, looked me in the eye, and asked me what I wanted to do. I was too afraid to tell the Ambassador. I was certain of her rejection, and I could not have borne that. So Matthew walked with me to talk to our local priest there in Rome. He told me that if I had an abortion, I would no longer be welcome in his church. I was only fifteen. I couldn't bear the thought of bringing a life into the world that would be dependent on me when I was so hollow, so broken. It wouldn't be right. I couldn't justify it, so Matthew found an abortion clinic and went with me. He held my hand and promised never to let it go.

Some time passed, and Matthew took my hand once again and led me into our church during Mass one Sunday. Even though the priest stopped his sermon when we entered, Matthew held his head high and walked with me down the aisle, not stopping until we reached the first pew. That moment was the strongest, most confident I'd ever seen him, but it didn't take long for his resolve to fade and for the rejection of our parents, and the condemnation of our church, our priest, and our city to bring him to his knees. Matthew was devoutly religious, just as his parents were. But what happened to me, to us, made him start to question everything he believed. His life was devoted to God, and he didn't understand Him anymore. He didn't understand why he was being rejected. He grew increasingly rebellious and lashed out at everyone, targeting me when his parents or fellow parishioners were not available. His parents blamed me for his misery, and they were right to do so. He was in a tailspin, and I could do nothing for him. Eventually, they moved away, and the Ambassador got a new posting. I heard about him from time to time, found out he had fallen into drugs. It seemed safer to stay away than to help him. I could only make the situation worse with my presence. I didn't see Matthew again until John called me and asked me to investigate his death.

I've never really had what you would call a strong faith. I grew up around churches, and attending church services was part of keeping up appearances as the daughter of a diplomat. We went to a lot of churches, but I was as rootless in my faith as I was at home. Before Italy, I neither felt welcome nor rejected by the church or by God. It was just one more place where I wasn't accepted, and that was okay by me. Then I met Matthew, and my feelings started to change.

The intensity in his eyes when he talked about the Bible, about his God, was as thrilling as it was bewildering to me. I'd never seen such fire, and never wanted so much to carry a little flame of my own. I needed something to believe in. I never had anything like that. I grew up surrounded by people who cared for me at least partially because they were paid to. I learned quickly to compartmentalize, to hide any signs of frailty or fear. I became indifferent. I was so focused on hiding and running (from myself and others) that I didn't realize I had nothing to run to, no one to anchor me, no one for whom I would abandon the shadows. I never ran out of things to hide, but I did find that I had less and less to show. I folded in on myself.

When I got pregnant, and then had an abortion, I felt like part of my life was being snatched from me—my future. Complications from the abortion procedure left me sterile. Any dream, however faint, of having a real family, someone to take care of and someone who would take care of me, was gone. I wanted to believe in something bigger than myself, and that was a family. And it was gone.

I changed my focus, throwing myself into school so that I could put myself into a position to join the FBI. The FBI was vastly bigger than me, and on a mission to rid the world of evil and help victims find comfort. Those were things I could believe in, and I started to see my own little flame emerging. I worked tirelessly for ten years, rising slowly through the ranks until I was eligible for a transfer to the BAU, my dream job. The worst criminals and the greatest opportunity to do real and permanent good in the world. The BAU was everything I ever wanted, and all I thought I could achieve.

Until I walked out of Hotch's office the first day and met you. I was frustrated that my dreams might be lost because some paperwork hadn't been properly shuffled. I was angry that Hotch and Gideon believed that I had pulled strings to get into the BAU, that I was only going to use the position for political gain. Ten years of exhausting work was reduced in seconds to manipulation and pandering. After everything I had gone through, I thought my dreams were being stolen from me again. And then I saw your blue eyes, and all of my anxiety, frustration, and stress melted away. Your eyes held everything I had been searching for, all of the kindness and hope and compassion that I understood but did not until then believe were in the world. I didn't know that good existed until I saw it for myself in you.

I don't know how you do it. I don't know how you go through file after file filled with images of the most incredible depravity, how you decide which cases we consult and which cases we work. How do you do all of that and still remember how to smile? How do you face the worst parts of humanity, and still find a way to reach out to a friend who needs comforted? How do you keep the monsters at bay so that Henry doesn't see them, doesn't feel them when you hold him? I don't know how it happens, but the fact that you can hold onto the good parts of your life while you face the worst head on...well, that's something worth believing in. That's worthy of a little faith. And I do have faith in you.

Because I have faith in you, I don't need to understand how you find the better angels of your nature amidst the most depraved and violent people; I just need to believe that you will keep finding them. I don't need to wonder how you find the strength to love and the openness to be loved; I just need to believe that you will. I believe in you, and because of my faith in you, I am starting to believe in myself, too. And I have tried my best to thank you in the only ways I knew how. Every word, every glance, every touch you give heals me, and so every touch and every word I give in return is a prayer of thanksgiving. I don't know how I came to be lucky enough to have you in my life, but I know enough not to take it for granted.

Because of you, I don't run as much or hide as much as I used to. I am finding I have more to show each day. Because of you, all of the places in me that once were hollow are now full of possibility. You are my window into the best and most meaningful parts of life. Whenever I get discouraged or afraid of the things we face at the BAU, I know I need only to find you and I will remember why we do our job, all the good we gain from it, all the lives we change for the better, all the comfort we bring to the grieving.

I love you, JJ. I'm in love with you, and I have been since the moment our eyes first met. You are my anchor in a restless world. You are my strength and my greatest comfort. I know that I risk a lot to tell you those three words, and you risk a lot to read them. But I had to write it because what I feel for you is too big for any compartment, too big for this page. What I feel for you can move mountains, and you deserve to be with someone who would do that for you without being asked. I would do absolutely anything for you, and that includes walking away from you, the BAU, the FBI, all of it, if that was what you wanted. The last thing I want to do is to tear your family apart; if I have to walk away for you to keep your family together, I will. But first, you need to ask yourself what you really want out of your life, and if you are getting it.

Before you consider asking me to walk away, I hope you'll give us a chance. Give me an opportunity to show you how happy you could be when you are with someone you love, someone whose focus in life is keeping the light shining brightly in your eyes. You deserve to know that kind of happiness, and you haven't had it since you met Will. Henry is the joy of your life, of all of our lives, but Will doesn't seem to make you happy, and it kills me to see you just getting by on almost love when you could have so much more.

When I was living in Egypt and studying Arabic, I picked up a few verses from the Qur'an and the Hadith. My favorite verse from the Hadith says that when you take a step toward God, He takes ten steps toward you, and when you walk toward Him, He runs toward you. I don't believe in God, JJ, but I do believe in you. If you take one step toward me, I promise I will run the rest of the way to you. I don't live in the past anymore; when I see you, I see a future. One filled with all the things I lost with Matthew and John and never believed I would find again. I see a family. Take the step, and I will spend every single day showing you all the things I see for us.

The sun is about to come up, so I guess that's my cue to stop writing (that and the cramp in my wrist). Give Henry a kiss for his Auntie Emily. Take as much time and space as you need with this letter. You know where to find me when you are ready to talk.

Love,

Emily

She folded the letter carefully and slid it into the envelope, taking care to seal the flap completely. Pushing herself away from the desk and stretching her arms and legs briefly, Emily picked up her keys and walked downstairs, letter in hand. She stopped at the door for a moment, knowing that this was her last chance to turn back, and then took a deep breath and walked out the door.

The drive to JJ's house was excruciating. She was exhausted and anxious and apprehensive and exhilarated all at once. Her nerves were on edge, and that more than kept her awake, despite not having slept well in many days. Nearly an hour later, she pulled up to JJ's mailbox, placed the letter inside, and raised the flag. It was done. She did everything she intended to do. Now all she could do was wait.