who's this one?
emily walks into the bullpen like she does every morning—composed, unreadable, like nothing could touch her. she carries herself the same way she always has, as if she wasn’t just up half the night overthinking her encounter with elle. as if elle hadn’t known her. as if elle didn’t now know about aria.
her grip tightens on the strap of her bag, but she doesn’t let anything slip as she moves through the office, giving nods where necessary, keeping her focus forward.
it’s been two weeks at the bau, and for two weeks, no one has asked about the photos on her desk.
she prefers it that way. but the pictures are there. they’ve always been there.
one of aria curled up in emily’s lap, cheek pressed against her chest, fast asleep. another of aria in the sink, covered in spaghetti sauce from a night emily still isn’t sure how got so out of hand. the last one—a more recent addition—is emily and aria at the beach, her tiny arms wrapped around emily’s neck, both of them squinting into the sun, wind whipping through their matching dark hair. she took her to maine on a whim; the beach always made emily feel held. she wanted to know if aria felt the same. she did.
it’s the kind of picture people assume is a niece. or maybe a friend’s kid. no one has asked. until today.
jj approaches her desk just before lunch, coffee in hand, casual but purposeful. she tells herself it’s just a check-in. that’s what she does. she’s friendly, she makes the team feel comfortable, she builds bridges. but today, there’s something else pushing her forward. elle had mentioned emily. had said she met her.
jj had spent dinner nodding along, taking in everything elle had found out—not because she needed to know, but because she wanted to. and now she knows about aria, a name attached to the photos jj told herself not to peer in at the first day emily set them up - not wanting to invade her space.
jj stops at emily’s desk, resting a hip against the edge. emily glances up, poised as always, but jj doesn’t miss the flicker of something in her expression before she smooths it away.
“hey, ” jj says, her tone light, effortless.
“hey,” emily responds, just as even.
jj’s gaze shifts before she can stop herself, drawn to the photos. they were always there, always within sight, but now she sees them. truly sees them. sees aria.
her eyes linger on the spaghetti one first—aria covered in sauce, grinning, her tiny hands sticky and triumphant. then to the beach photo, where emily looks softer than jj has ever seen her, sunlight catching on her skin, arms securely wrapped around the little girl in her grasp.
jj notices something else, too. a small, white stain on emily’s collar. she had seen one in the same place the other day. at first, she thought it was toothpaste, maybe coffee. now she wonders if it’s dried milk. or drool. or snot from a toddler who doesn't want to be dropped off at daycare.
she pictures it without meaning to—emily, not like she is here, not stiff and guarded, but softer, quieter, holding aria in the morning, pressing a kiss to her hair before rushing out the door. it’s an image she likes.
she doesn’t say anything about the stain. instead, she lifts a hand slightly, pointing toward the photos.
“who’s this one?”
her voice shifts naturally, something maternal slipping into it. she doesn’t mean to. but she knows emily catches it.
emily hesitates. jj can see it—the moment she processes the question, the way her fingers twitch slightly against her desk.
but then she answers, tone even. “my sister.”
jj blinks, playing caught off guard for a second as if she doesn’t know this information already. “your sister?”
emily nods, and jj watches her glance at the photo, like she’s grounding herself in it.
“aria. she’s two.”
jj studies the picture, something warm pulling in her chest.
“she looks like you.”
emily exhales softly, shifting slightly in her chair. “i hear that a lot.”
jj smiles, glancing between the photos again. “she’s adorable. i love this one—the spaghetti night?” the blonde gently points toward the photo, aria’s dimples indented so deeply in joy.
emily lets out a small, amused breath. “a disaster of a spaghetti night.”
jj laughs softly. “looks like it.”
her gaze shifts back to the beach photo, lingering longer than she means to. she wonders what emily is like outside of work. how she sounds when she laughs, when she’s really laughing. if she sings to aria at night. if she hums under her breath while making breakfast, hair still a little damp from the shower, shifting aria onto her hip without a second thought.
god, she wants to know.
emily notices the way jj’s gaze sticks on the beach photo, the way she takes a second too long before looking away. neither of them say anything, but something settles between them. not heavy, not uncomfortable. just something. something new.
jj clears her throat, straightens slightly. “she’s lucky to have you, big sisters are a gift.”
emily swallows, fingers brushing absently against her coffee cup as she replies - not knowing the depth of jj’s feelings and her tragic past tied to once having an older sister. “thanks.”
jj studies her for a moment longer, then offers a small smile before pushing off the desk.
“lunch calls. we’re at the round table if you want to join, prentiss.”
emily nods watches her go, exhaling slowly. she hates her last name, but she enjoys the way it sounds when jj says it. her eyes flicker back to the beach photo, she doesn’t know what just happened between them and the unspoken words between their thoughts.
but she knows she’ll be thinking about it for the rest of the day.
and she did. and continued to, even while shes cooking dinner that afternoon inside her apartment.
the smell of butter and slightly overcooked bread fills the air as emily flips a grilled cheese in the pan, wincing at the too-dark edges. she hadn’t meant to burn it, but her mind has been elsewhere.
because jj asked about aria today.
she didn’t just acknowledge the pictures, or glance at them in passing like everyone else. she asked.
who’s this one?
emily had expected someone to ask eventually. but she hadn’t expected jj’s voice to sound like that. soft, warm, dipped in something gentle, something… maternal. something emily hadn’t heard from her before. she had loved it, probably more than she should.
aria giggles softly from across the room, the sound muffled by the pacifier in her mouth. now sitting on the floor, legs sprawled out, refrigerator magnets scattered around her in a mess of colors and letters. every so often, she presses one to the fridge, eyes wide with delight when it smacks loudly against the metal. emily sighs, flipping the sandwich again, knowing it’s probably too late to salvage it. but she’ll try.
she knows she needs to start weaning aria off the pacifier. she’s two now. but emily also knows that comfort is important. she googled a million times if aria was too old for a soother; but every mom blog was different, and quite frankly she felt like a bitch for taking away one of the few things that soothes aria when shes anxious or just wants it. one point, emily debated if it was like someone taking away her one friday night cigarette she allowed herself to have on the fire escape way after aria was asleep. she would declare that, a bitch move.
aria doesn’t always have the words to voice it, but emily understands. sometimes, comfort is all they have.
aria toddles over to her suddenly, holding up a bright blue letter in her small hands.
“dat?”
emily glances down, softening at the way aria looks up at her, expectant.
“that’s b,” emily says gently. “buh-buh, b.”
aria nods, processing. then— “beeee.”
emily laughs softly, crouching a little to meet her level. “yes. b. b is for… banana. bee. baby.”
aria grins, pointing at herself when emily said baby. she seems to take it as a game now, and a few moments later, she’s back with another letter.
this time, an green e. it’s worn at the sides - evidence that aria probably gnawed on it during her teething days.
emily goes through the motions again, explaining each sound, each word.
“e is for elephant. egg. ear.” then, without thinking, she adds, “e is for emmy.”
aria loves that one.
her pacifier bobs slightly as she giggles. “emmy!”
emily swallows, warmth settling in her chest. emmy.
aria doesn’t call her anything else. not emily. not sister, sissy or any variation of the label. just, emmy.
it’s hers. it’s theirs.
aria toddles back to the fridge, collecting another letter. this time, she holds up a red j.
“dat?”
emily answers automatically. not thinking.
“j is for jj.”
the second it leaves her mouth, she stills.
aria doesn’t.
her little mouth forms the sound slowly, carefully, testing it.
“jaaaayjeee.”
fucking hell.
emily melts.
aria’s voice is small, sweet, laced with something innocent and warm.
jj’s name shouldn’t sound that soft. that precious.
but it does.
aria says it again, delighted, before scampering back to the fridge, sticking the letter on with a satisfying thunk.
emily turns back to the stove, biting her lip, staring at the very crispy grilled cheese with vague horror. aria won’t eat it now. it’s black at the edges, her own fault for being completely and utterly distracted.
she sighs, moving the pan off the burner, then glances back over at aria - and freezes.
aria, in her toddler chaos, has stuck two letters together on the fridge.
the e and the j . side by side.
fate, coincidence— whatever the hell it is , it makes something tighten in emily’s chest. she exhales, shaking her head slightly, a small, helpless smile tugging at her lips. aria is already moving on, smacking another letter onto the fridge, laughing at the sound. but emily keeps looking.
e and j . j and e.
she swallows, rubbing a hand over her face, then sighs, finally accepting that she’s going to have to make another grilled cheese.
dinner was as simple as it could be. grilled cheeses. and a dill pickle - because aria has now became randomly obsessed with dill pickle spears. emily won't complain, Aria eating something during her picky phase. plus, emily can't act like she doesn't steal a pickle sometimes at 3 am when she’s up for god knows why. but now?
now, the apartment is dim, the soft glow of the hallway nightlight casting long shadows against the walls. emily moves slowly, rocking aria in her arms, her steps quiet against the hardwood floors. aria is warm against her, heavy with sleep but not quite there yet. her little fingers curl loosely in emily’s shirt, her breath slow and even, sucking gently on her pacifier.
the hallway is lined with photos, each one a snapshot of something significant—places emily has been, postcards from countries she once called home, and now, photos of aria.
aria at the park, laughing on a swing. aria bundled in a coat, cheeks pink from the cold. aria in the sink after the infamous spaghetti disaster, grinning up at emily with sauce smeared across her face. and then there’s one of sergio—the cat emily adopted a few weeks ago, now lazily napping at the foot of her bed, undoubtedly curled into her blankets like he owns the place. the cat who would not admit if he could talk, but is certainly aria’s best friend.
but there’s another photo, smaller, easy to overlook.
elizabeth. emily. aria.
emily doesn’t like looking at it, but it’s there.
she hadn’t wanted to keep it. hadn’t wanted to see it. but guilt is a strange thing, and despite everything, there’s a part of her that couldn’t bring herself to erase every trace of her mother from her home. it isn’t about love. it isn’t about respect. she doesn’t know what the hell possesses her to not take it down.
she had nearly cut elizabeth off completely. she should have. but then came aria.
a scandal all its own. elizabeth was older, unmarried, not in need of a child when she hadn’t even cared for her first one. and when emily found out? she was pissed. but when she met aria? leaving wasn't an option. she couldn’t let it happen. not because of elizabeth. but because she wouldn’t let what happened to her happen to whoever this child was going to become.
so she made a choice. and now, here they were. she thought once about the possibility if she stuck to her original plan; leaving elizabeth and in turn the baby behind. but that stung in a way she never wanted to feel again.
aria shifts slightly in her arms, a small sigh leaving her lips - pulling emily back, who hums softly, swaying, hoping sleep will take aria soon.
but then aria’s head lifts just slightly, her big, dark eyes locking onto the photo.
her little brows furrow, her gaze lingering on the faces. like she’s confused as to who this woman even is standing next to emily holding aria in the picture. she reaches toward it, her tiny arm bouncing with the rhythm of emily’s movements.
and then, voice soft, muffled behind her pacifier—
“mommy.”
emily stills.
aria’s fingers stretch toward the photo, sleepy but insistent.
“mommy.”
the word hits emily harder than she expects.
she swallows, pressing her lips together, unsure if the lump in her throat is from the name or from who aria is reaching for.
emily exhales softly, shifting her grip, pressing a gentle kiss to aria’s hair.
“that’s elizabeth,” she murmurs, voice careful, almost corrective. elizabeth didn’t allow emily to call her mommy growing up. she addressed her by her real name. but that’s not why emily corrected her, she corrected her because emily felt as if elizabeth didn’t deserve that title.
she hadn’t called once since the night she dropped aria off.
aria blinks slowly, gaze flickering back to emily, her tiny fingers curling in her shirt once more. she doesn’t ask again. just nestles into emily’s shoulder, sighing contentedly - knowing this person. knowing her emmy, wasn’t just leaving.
emily lingers a moment longer, staring at the photo. her anger boils into sadness, and then acceptance within seconds. then she turns, carrying aria back toward her room, whispering promises only she can hear.
of safety, and love.