”Console me in my darkest hour. Convince me that the truth is always grey.”
The flight to Paris was due to take eight hours, but their jet could make it in seven and a half. Emily didn’t know why this lost half an hour was weighing so heavily on her mind, but she’s fairly certain it has something to do with the quiet blonde sitting across from her, watching the DC lights disappear from the plane window.
JJ was different, that much was clear. Emily knew that in the duration of their flight she was going to have to ask why. Ask why the worry lines on her forehead were more pronounced, why her words held a sharper edge to them, only softening when speaking to her.
JJ’s eyes were still a deep blue, though. Emily was glad that even if the rest of her life were about to irrevocably change, they would at least stay the same.
But would they, though?
JJ’s eyes were utterly guiltless. They shone with kindness and loyalty; the sheen of a life lived with honesty and love. Emily couldn’t help but wonder if what she was asking the other woman to do would change her utterly. Utterly and terribly.
Emily thought of all the lying JJ would have to do for however long it takes them to finally take down Doyle. She would be well able to handle it, Emily knew. Her degree in communications and job as Media Liaison ensured that she was more than adept at controlling the flow of information. Despite her obvious ability, Emily didn’t want this for her. She didn’t want JJ to turn into someone who was more comfortable with lies than the truth, someone who had to instinctively manipulate every situation she was in, someone who wasn’t able to trust easily.
Someone like Emily Prentiss.
Of course, she wasn’t Emily Prentiss anymore, and she wouldn’t be for a long, long time.
Changing identities was nearly second nature to her at this point but laying her real one to rest was probably the hardest thing she’d ever had to do. She tries not to imagine her funeral, the mourners who might visit her empty grave, but the images spill into her mind uninvited. What flowers will decorate her resting place, and who will put them there? Who will hang her picture on the wall of the BAU and who will pause as they pass it in respect? There’s too many questions, none of which she wants to know the answer to.
“Emily, stop.”
Her head shot to the side to look JJ in the eye, neck aching at the abruptness of her movement.
“Stop what?” she asked, in genuine confusion. Neither of them had spoken a word since the hospital, and even then it wasn’t much. She wasn’t aware she was doing anything that warranted a warning to stop.
“You’re thinking too hard. These will be the last peaceful few hours you’ll have in a while. Don’t waste them by stressing over things you can’t control.”
Her words were soft but firm and didn’t allow room for any argument. Emily smiled. She would miss her voice the most, she reckons. It’s made of the same sweet honey as her hair.
“It’s hard to stop thinking about it. I’m dead, JJ. And nothings gonna be the same ever again.”
JJ looked at her analytically for a few moments, before taking her hand.
“You look pretty alive to me.”
Emily huffed out a laugh, but to her absolute and abject horror, it turned into a sob halfway through. She brought her hands up to cover her mouth, desperate to retain the last vestiges of the little dignity she had left.
“Emily…”
Before she knew what was happening, she was in JJ’s arms, encircled by her very being, and being soothed like a babe. Oh, what Emily would have given to be this close to JJ all those years ago; those precious first few months of their friendship when the possibility of something more was still on the cards.
“JJ, promise me this is okay. Tell me we’re making the right choices here. All the lies we’re creating. Tell me-“ she cut off as another sob racked her aching body, and JJ began rubbing small circles into her back, grounding and reassuring.
“It’s the right choice. Doyle has forced our most desperate hand, don’t forget that. Emily, we’re doing what we’re doing to keep you safe. The world isn’t black and white, it’s the right choice, and the worst one.”
*
”You go run and tell your friends I’m losing touch. Fill their heads with rumours of impending doom.”
JJ collapsed onto her couch, sinking into the cushions until they nearly enveloped her. Faintly, she could hear Will upstairs snoring, and her watch confirmed that it was nearing two in the morning.
Spencer had been over that evening for dinner. Henry was delighted; the toddler spending the majority of the visit perched on his godfather’s knee, arms hooked around his neck. Spencer talked to him about dinosaurs and superheroes and outer space with the same sincerity that he gave to his profiles, despite the fact that Henry’s responses were mostly just excited giggles and babbles about the “pretty colours” of the toy spaceship he owned.
Will had also engaged Spencer in a discussion on one of his latest cases with the DC Police, valuing his input and listening quite genuinely to some accidental long-winded rambles. JJ kept shooting her boyfriend grateful glances. He was being so good with this, content when Spencer popped over for dinner or when Penelope arrived at half nine at night to drag JJ out for an impromptu girls night, that both she and Will knew would just end up with Penelope sobbing into JJ’s shoulder about Emily’s death.
Will kept telling her that she was so strong. That her resilience in the face of such tragedy was admirable. JJ didn’t feel very strong, nor did she feel like someone to be admired.
Every time she ran her hand through Spencer’s hair in comfort, or wiped tears from Penelope’s cheeks, she was tainting their friendship, abusing their trust. The many words of reassurances that she graced Morgan with were bitter behind her tongue.
She does not regret what had to be done, she just didn’t expect it to tear her apart from the inside out.
When she cries at night, muffled sobs into her pillow, Will rubs her shoulders and tells her that Emily would be proud of her. He doesn’t know just how apt his words truly are. Emily would be proud because she’s keeping their promise. But Emily would also be bitterly disappointed at just how low JJ feels she is stooping to do it. If she has to look in Penelope or Spencer’s tear-ridden eyes one more time and lie straight to their faces-
She does not regret this. But it hurts.
Talking with Emily helps, even though they’re technically only playing online scrabble. Over the past two and a half months, they’ve come up with a code of sorts. If Emily goes first, they do not talk about anything; they simply play the game and try not to think about the ocean separating them.
If JJ goes first, however, things get more complicated.
If her first letters are placed in the top left of the board, she’s talking about Spencer. If the word begins with a vowel, it means it has been a good week for him, one where he engages with the world around him, and the thousand yard-stare leaves his eyes. Conversely, if her word begins with a consonant, it signifies his suffering. It means he’s spent yet another evening perched on her couch, crying until there are no tears left to shed.
Penelope is the top right corner, and the same system applies. Morgan is bottom left, and Rossi is bottom right. However, if JJ starts by placing her letter tiles in the middle, the odd game they’ve concocted becomes that more tense.
If the game begins in the middle, it’s just the two of them talking. No BAU team, no Doyle. It’s strangely intimate, and JJ almost feels guilty playing it under her covers while the father of her child sleeps beside her.
They create words that have meanings for them. A three-letter word means I miss you, anything 5 and above means I’m struggling. JJ couldn’t count the amount of times she’d restarted the game one night, desperate to be provided with a combination of letters that could create the elusive five-letter word. Emily was patient, Emily waited. And when it was her turn, after JJ spelt out ‘black’…
…Emily refreshed the game until she could spell out ‘bird’.
*
”But you made your way back home. You sold your soul, like a Roman vagabond. And about how you got lost. But you made your way back home.”
Emily had been back three and a half weeks when she found herself on JJ’s doorstep one Wednesday night. It had been drizzling rain, and the lights she could see from behind the glass panes of JJ’s front door were distorted from the droplets. It made for a beautiful sight.
Will answered, with Henry perched on his hip. There was that momentary flicker in his eye (as there was in many other’s eyes) when he saw her, his brain taking a few seconds to remember that she was indeed alive. Henry buries his face into his father’s shoulder but gives her a tired wave during a stubborn yawn.
“If you need to talk to Jen she’s inside. I’m gonna take Henry for a spin round in the car. See if he doesn’t fall ‘sleep.”
Emily nodded and waited for him to slide past her before she made her way into JJ’s home. Family pictures filled the walls of the hallway, and on the doorframe into the kitchen marker lines could be seen, noting Henry’s height every few months. There was soft music coming from the kitchen, and Emily could hear JJ humming along.
“Honey?” she called, and Emily wished she could answer.
She remembers being 35, and meeting SSA Jennifer Jareau. The no-nonsense, fiercely loyal, and brilliant Media Liaison. She remembers getting to know JJ soon after. The funny, adorable, drop-dead gorgeous woman, who immediately and unknowingly stole her heart. For a while there, in the far away world of 2006, Emily imagined a future like this. A future of walking into a perfect house, pictures lining the halls, answering to JJ's call of ‘Honey’.
But JJ found Will, and Emily lost herself.
It was disconcerting , existing at the same time as your tombstone. It felt like a glitch in reality that has forever altered her destiny. Those long weeks spent in Europe have stripped her of something, the remnants of her soul, perhaps?
She remembers living in Rome as a teenager and being called a sinner.
She’s sinned properly since then.
“Will? Honey?”
“It’s Emily.”
Her voice came out low and raspy, and she winced at its sound before striding into the kitchen. There JJ was, nursing a glass of some random drink. It didn’t matter what it was. Emily wanted some.
“If you’re pouring, I’ll have some.”
“Jesus, Emily. You look like crap.”
And you look like an angel, Jennifer Jareau.
“Thanks, JJ.”
The blonde woman quickly walked around the kitchen island, hand coming up to rest on Emily’s chin. “Have you been sleeping at all? What are you doing here?”
Emily snorted. “I think my body’s still on Paris time.”
“It’s been over a month, Emily.”
“Has it? It doesn’t feel like it. Some days… Some days it feels like I never even left. I swear to God, JJ, I could walk out your door right now and see the Louvre. I’ll show it to you, all those pretty paintings.”
“Christ, Emily sit down.”
“Feel lost in my own damn home. DC should be my home, shouldn’t it? This isn’t my city anymore. God. God, JJ was it ever? Do I have a home anymore?”
“Sit down, Em. Please.”
And then she was being guided to sit on a sofa, so unlike the small one on the jet. This one was comfortable and cosy and felt like heaven. She hadn’t slept in days, weeks, maybe. But she thinks she could sleep here. Not yet though, because JJ is still talking. What is she saying? Emily can’t quite make out. But it's reassuring and loving and so very, very Jennifer Jareau.
*
Emily had fallen asleep almost as soon as her body made contact with the cushions. She didn’t hear JJ’s words, but perhaps she did, unconsciously. She would dream of them, whenever things got bad.
”But you made your way back home.”
Home wasn’t any city.
Home was her.