officially emily 'two titles' prentiss.
emily leaves work an hour early.
she barely tells anyone. just lets hotch know she has something to take care of and heads out, the signed papers in her bag feeling heavier than they should.
the law firm is a quiet, sterile building, the kind of place that smells faintly of expensive furniture polish and paper.
she walks in, straight to the receptionist, and slides the papers across the desk without ceremony.
the woman barely glances at them before giving her a polite, professional nod. “thank you, ms. prentiss. a new birth certificate will be mailed to you in approximately twelve to fourteen business days.”
that’s it. one paper. one single fucking document, dictating everything.
emily swallows, her stomach twisting.
she thought it would feel bigger, heavier, that maybe she’d have to sign something else, that there would be some final step that made it feel real.
but this? this is nothing. a signature and a promise to update a piece of paper. her hands twitch at her sides.
she nods once, forces a clipped “thanks,” and turns on her heel, walking straight back out.
she doesn’t let herself dwell on it. not yet. instead, she gets in her car and heads toward daycare.
she hears it immediately as soon as she steps inside.
“emmy!”
the shriek of her name cuts through the room, pure joy wrapped in a toddler’s voice. aria’s little legs are already jetting toward her as fast as they can, her arms swinging, determination set in her tiny body. her foot catches the edge of the rug, and for a split second, emily feels her stomach drop, but one of the nannies reaches out, catching her before she can faceplant.
aria stumbles, then bounces back, completely unfazed, still running straight for emily. the nanny just laughs, shaking her head. “someone’s excited to see their sissy, huh?”
sissy.
sister.
but emily isn’t just that anymore.
she’s more than that.
she’s everything.
aria’s little hands reach for her, pulling her from the thought, and emily doesn’t hesitate—she scoops her up immediately, pressing a kiss to the side of her head as aria tucks herself into her.
“hi, baby,” emily murmurs, rubbing slow circles on her back.
aria hums, content, her tiny fingers gripping the collar of emily’s shirt. “missed ‘ou.”
emily’s heart twists. “i missed you too, bug.”
the nanny smiles, folding her arms. “she had a great day after drop off,” she informs emily. “colored for a while, played outside, and only tried once to get out of naptime by saying ‘need emmy’ before she passed out five minutes later.”
emily huffs a small laugh, shifting aria in her arms. “of course she did.”
aria just grins, her dimples peeking out as she nuzzles against emily’s shoulder, her little body settling as if she knows—feels—that she’s home now. emily tightens her hold, pressing one more kiss to the top of her head. then, without another thought, she carries her out the door, taking her home.
the ride home is aria’s time to talk.
she’s practically buzzing with excitement, her little body vibrating in her car seat as she babbles to emily as fast as her toddler mouth can keep up.
“emmy!” she exclaims before they’re even fully out of the daycare parking lot, her legs kicking slightly against her seat. “i see.. wadybugs ‘day.”
emily glances at her in the rearview mirror, taking in her flushed cheeks, the way her hair is a little wild from the day—wispy strands sticking up, remnants of pigtails that didn’t quite survive the afternoon. aria’s always a little messy when emily picks her up, and for some reason, she loves that. loves that aria plays hard, lives hard, that she throws herself into the day with her whole heart.
“ladybugs, huh?” emily hums, trying not to smile at the way aria’s hands are moving, trying to show just how small they were.
“tiny!” aria insists, pinching her fingers together. “soo tiny! wike uh..dis!”
emily smirks. “that small? wow.”
“mhm!” aria nods, curls bouncing slightly, her eyes bright from all the talking. “and markers..with big paper!”
she’s giddy, her words tumbling over each other, her excitement pushing them out faster than she can form them.
“big paper, huh?” emily plays along, nodding. “what’d you draw, baby?”
aria pauses, then giggles, like she just remembered. “ummm… doggy! big sun! an–’” she gasps, remembering something else. “read books! about phishies!”
her voice lifts with delight, her little hands flapping slightly.
phishies.
emily bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
“fishies,” she corrects, amused.
aria furrows her brows, serious. “phishies!”
“phishies, got it,” emily says, humoring her. “sounds like you had a pretty great day, bug.”*
aria nods furiously, a breathless little sigh escaping her lips. “i happy, i play lots!”
her cheeks are still flushed from all the excitement, her body squirming slightly as she relives her whole day through her babbling.
emily’s hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. because fuck, aria has no idea. no idea that her birth mother discarded her. no idea that, as of today, she is legally emily’s. that emily isn’t just her sister anymore.
she’s more.
aria’s life has changed, but all she knows is ladybugs and markers and books about phishies. aria pulls her from her thoughts before they can spiral too deep.
“emmy do ’day?”
emily blinks, caught off guard, her eyes flickering to the rearview mirror again, meeting aria’s expectant gaze. jesus fucking christ. if you only knew, kid.
emily clears her throat, forcing a lightness into her tone. “well,” she starts, “emmy went to work. had soooo many meetings. read lots of reports. and…” she sighs dramatically, “i lost my favorite ink pen!”
aria gasps—actual, genuine shock—her little hands clutching at the straps of her car seat. “oh nos, emmy!”
emily laughs, shaking her head. “i know, it was so sad.”
aria nods, her big brown eyes round with sympathy. “so sad…” she echoes, her tiny voice full of concern.
“but,” emily continues, “jj was nice. she found me another one.”
aria hums, thinking. “jayje nice.”
yeah.
jj is nice.
jj was more than nice—she was a witness to the biggest fucking decision of emily’s life, without hesitation.
she was angry on aria’s behalf.
she cares.
emily knows it.
she sees it, feels it in the way jj had signed her name so deliberately on that paper, the way her hands had tightened around the pen, like it meant something to her too.
jj is nice.
emily just responds simply. “she is, very.”
by the time the thought settles, emily is pulling into their driveway. aria lights up.
“sergy!” she shrieks, her body wiggling in excitement.
emily huffs a small laugh, shutting off the car. “yep, sergio’s inside.”
aria practically vibrates in her car seat. “tweats! i do tweats!”
it’s her ritual.
every single day, the first thing she does when they get home—she feeds sergio his treats, without fail, like it’s her personal duty.
emily unbuckles her, lifts her up, settling her on her hip. aria clings immediately, still thrumming with excitement, still warm from her day, her head resting against emily’s shoulder, her little fingers gripping at her sweater. emily presses a slow, steady kiss to the side of her head.
because god, she hopes her days stay this easy. that her biggest concern is feeding the cat, not the fact that she was thrown away. that she gets to keep this joy, this innocence, that she never has to carry the weight of knowing she was given up.
that emily will always—always—make sure she never feels unwanted again.
as soon as they step inside, aria is bouncing in emily’s arms, her excitement practically radiating off her little body. she squirms, her hands pressing insistently against emily’s chest.
“down, emmy! down!”
emily huffs a soft laugh, crouching to set her down. “okay, okay—go on, baby.”
the second aria’s little feet hit the floor, she takes off toward the kitchen, her arms pumping dramatically, her excitement barely contained.
“sergy!” she calls, her tiny voice sing-songy, already heading for the cabinet where the treats are kept. “tweats, sergy! come eat!”
emily follows behind, smirking, her movements far more measured as she steps into the kitchen.
“sergio,” she calls too, shaking her head as she reaches for the treat container. “you better get in here before your favorite human loses her mind.”
a quiet thump from the other room, the soft padding of paws against the floor, and then—sergio appears, his sleek black fur catching the dim light of the kitchen, his tail flicking lazily as he trots toward them.
aria gasps, her hands fluttering in excitement. “sergy!”
sergio weaves through emily’s legs first, brushing up against her in a familiar greeting before heading straight for aria. aria immediately drops into a squat, her little hands stretching out, wiggling with anticipation.
“tweats, emmy!” she demands, her eyes wide with excitement. “neeed ‘em!”
emily snorts, unscrewing the lid, tipping the container just enough to let three small treats fall into her palm. she lowers them toward aria, letting the toddler’s tiny hands carefully scoop them up. aria’s little fingers clutch around the treats, her movements extra careful, like she knows this is her most important job of the day.
but then—the second she sees them—three little treats in her palm—her face falls.
her tiny lips push into a pout, and she tilts her head up, looking at emily with the biggest, most tragic puppy dog eyes emily has ever seen.
“has one more fo’ sergy…?”
normally, emily wouldn’t give in. the cat was already fat enough, thanks to aria and her constant sneaking of food off her plate at dinner.
but today.
today was different. today, emily had signed a piece of paper that changed everything.
today, aria had lost something she didn’t even know she had.
so today— sergio could have four treats.
“just one,” emily mutters, shaking her head as she lets another treat fall into aria’s tiny palm. “and don’t get used to this, got it?”
aria beams, nodding fiercely. “mhm!”
she immediately plops down on the floor, cross-legged, her little hands gently placing the treats in a neat little line beside her.
sergio, with all the grace and patience of a cat who has long accepted his fate, settles beside her, his tail curling around his paws. then— he leans down and starts eating, his ears flicking slightly as aria lets out a delighted giggle, reaching out to pat his back with her free hand.
not too hard. not too rough. just gentle. because emily had taught her that. because aria had learned. because this tiny little girl, who life had already tried to be so cruel to, still had so much softness in her.
emily watches, leaning against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes drifting between aria’s tiny fingers and the lazy flick of sergio’s tail.
her mind wanders, unbidden, to the first time aria ever stayed the night with her. she had been two months old, barely anything more than a tiny bundle of warmth, and emily had fully expected sergio to be indifferent at best, annoyed at worst.
but instead— sergio had liked her.
had accepted her from the first moment he laid eyes on her, hopping onto the couch where she lay in her bassinet, curling up beside her like she was his, too.
and every moment after—when aria crawled after him. when she drooled on him. when she yanked his tail once—just once—and he had only meowed loudly, looking at emily like, can you believe this shit? emily had taken aria’s hands, taught her what gentle meant, and from that day forward, she listened.
and now— aria sits there, softly patting sergio’s back as he eats, her little voice murmuring “good boy, sergy…” in the sweetest, purest little tone.
emily swallows hard.
because god. aria is so good. so soft. and life has already tried to be so fucking rough.
later on, emily makes dinner.
she moves through the motions easily—sautéing vegetables, searing chicken, boiling noodles—because aria is in a buttered noodle phase that emily cannot understand.
“bug,” emily teases, glancing at aria, who’s spinning in circles in the middle of the kitchen. “you sure you don’t want something else with your noodles?”
aria stops spinning, immediately throwing her arms out for balance, her eyes wide. “no!”
emily laughs, shaking her head. “of course not.”
she plates their food—noodles with butter and a tiny sprinkle of parmesan for aria, chicken and vegetables on the side because emily has to try.
aria squeals when her bowl is placed in front of her. “nooooodles!”
emily smirks, sliding into her seat. “yep. noodles. again.”
aria immediately digs in, her little fork clumsily stabbing at the noodles, determined to do it herself. emily watches. watches the way aria swings her legs, the way her cheeks puff out when she chews, the way she hums happily between bites. and for the first time since she signed those fucking papers, emily lets herself breathe.
because aria is here. and emily? she’s eating dinner.
with her daughter.
after dinner, emily moves through the motions that have become theirs. a routine they built together. a routine that, as of today, is forever.
she gathers the leftover food, transfers the remaining chicken and vegetables into containers, making a mental note that the buttered noodles aria insisted on eating were barely touched outside of a few enthusiastic bites. she grabs her own plate first, then aria’s.
and, just like every night, as she lifts the toddler’s small bowl from the table, aria’s little voice, so soft, so automatic, comes quietly through the space between them—
“fank ‘ou.”
emily pauses. she never told her to say that. never taught her that she had to, but aria does it every time. gentle. instinctive. and it makes something in emily’s chest ache—the kind of ache that feels like warmth, like something so pure it almost makes her uncomfortable.
she reaches out, brushing her fingers lightly through aria’s dark hair, tucking a stray piece behind her ear. “you’re welcome, baby.”
aria hums in response, already shifting in her seat, waiting for the next step in their night. as emily moves toward the sink, aria climbs back onto her knees at the table, her small fingers immediately grabbing for the wooden shapes puzzle she does after dinner most nights. tonight, she carefully turns a triangular piece over in her hands, studying it intently, like she’s contemplating something deeply important.
and then—
“emmy?”
that tone. that unmistakable, weighty toddler curiosity.
emily sighs lovingly, bracing herself. “yeah, bug?”
aria pauses, still holding the puzzle piece, turning it again between her fingers.
“why clouds up?”
emily stills, scrubbing a dish slower, her brain immediately scrambling for an answer that won’t spiral into an explanation of condensation, air pressure, and things two-year-olds do not care about.
“because,” she finally says, “they’re made of air and water, and they float in the sky like balloons.”
aria considers this. then, after a long moment—
“phishies in clouds?”
emily bites her lip, hard, to keep from laughing. she turns, leaning against the counter, raising a brow at aria’s completely serious expression. “no, baby. fishies stay in the water.”
aria squints at her. like she isn’t sure she believes that. like maybe she needs to fact-check emily about it later. but after a moment of deep thought, she finally nods, her chubby fingers placing the triangular piece into its rightful slot on the board.
“okay,” she says, so certain, like she just made peace with the information she received. emily shakes her head, huffing a quiet laugh as she rinses the last plate and dries her hands.
bath time is next, always.
her bathroom—once hers, once sleek and minimal, once a place where she had taken long, quiet baths, sinking deep into hot water with wine in one hand and a book in the other—
is now aria’s kingdom.
her porcelain bathtub, once filled with lavender bubbles and candles lining the edges, is now home to foam letters, rubber ducks, and a tiny pink whale that squeaks when squeezed too hard. aria kicks happily, sending small waves against the sides of the tub, the water rippling with her excitement.
“big splashes!” she announces, her voice full of delight.
“small splashes,” emily corrects, kneeling beside the tub, rolling up her sleeves. “we keep the water inside the tub, remember?”
aria grins.
a mischievous little grin.
the one she does only for emily, the one where her nose scrunches slightly, where her dimples deepen, where her eyes sparkle in a way that makes it so clear she’s thinking about pushing a boundary.
“aria…” emily warns, her voice low, knowing.
aria hums, innocently, turning her attention dramatically toward one of her rubber ducks, pretending she wasn’t about to launch a tidal wave across the bathroom.
“hmm?”
emily narrows her eyes. “don’t even think about it.”
aria giggles—loudly. the kind of giggle that only ever comes out around emily. because aria is shy. selective. careful. just like emily was as a kid. but emily had grown into it—that carefulness had turned into something heavier, into guarded silence, into the habit of shutting people out before they could get too close. she doesn’t want that for aria. she doesn’t want her to feel like she has to shield herself from everyone. she doesn’t want her to learn that the world is untrustworthy before she even gets a chance to believe in it. but for now, aria still giggles freely.
and emily wants to keep it that way.
“alright, miss trouble,” she murmurs, shaking her head as she reaches for the washcloth, dipping it into the warm water. “come here.”
aria wiggles, shifting forward as emily gently begins wiping down her arms, the soap sudsing against her soft skin. she works slowly, methodically, taking her in as she does. aria’s small fingers, still slightly pruney from the water. her round cheeks, warm from the heat of the bath. her lashes, fluttering slower now. she always slows down during bath time. her energy eases, her body relaxes, the drowsiness pulls at her, soft and inevitable. aria lets out a little hum, one of those half-content, half-sleepy sounds, leaning into emily’s hand when she washes her back.
and god.
the fact that she trusts emily this much, the fact that she settles this easily, that she knows—knows—emily will always be there to keep her safe…it makes emily’s chest ache.she brushes a few damp strands of hair from aria’s forehead, smoothing them down, pressing a soft kiss there.
“almost bedtime, bug.”
aria hums again, tilting her head up, her sleepy brown eyes blinking up at emily.
“wub you, emmy,” she mumbles, her voice small, already fading into sleepiness.
emily breathes in.
“love you too, baby,” she murmurs back, her voice soft as the bends down, and wraps aria in a soft, fluffy towel, lifting her from the tub with ease.
“up we go,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss into the damp strands of hair clinging to aria’s forehead. aria hums in response, a sound so small, so sleepy, her little body melting into emily’s hold, boneless and warm from the bath. the energy she had an hour ago—the bouncing, the excited giggles, the mischief—has all drained out of her. now, she is quiet. slow. but not gone. emily can feel her fighting it, the way her body leans into her but still tries to hold itself upright, her little hands clutching loosely at the towel wrapped around her.
there’s still a tiny bit of defiance left, a tiny bit of that determined little girl who always finds a way to push sleep away for just a little longer. and emily? she knows it. she knows her. so she moves carefully, keeping her voice soft as she carries aria into her room, balancing her on one hip while grabbing a fresh diaper and pajamas with her free hand.
“okay, bug,” emily murmurs, bending down to her knees and setting her down on the fluffy rug in her room, unwrapping the towel. “let’s get cozy.”
aria blinks up at her, deep brown eyes hazy, the weight of sleep pulling at her, but still—she fights. emily watches as her eyelids flutter, then force themselves open again, the barest flicker of stubbornness still hanging on.
“tired, baby?” emily asks, even though she already knows the answer.
aria shakes her head, but it’s so slow, so half-hearted, like even she knows she’s lying.
emily smiles softly. “mhmm. sure, bug.”
she works gently, dressing her with slow, deliberate hands, guiding her tiny limbs through her pajamas. normally, aria squirms, wiggling as much as she can, drawing it out in every way possible. but tonight? tonight, she lets emily do it, her body pliant, drowsy, the occasional lazy shift the only sign she’s still awake. emily smooths lotion over her little arms, over her legs, the faint scent of lavender and vanilla filling the room. aria lets out the softest little sigh, her tiny fingers twitching against emily’s wrist before she rests, settles.
she is so small. so perfect.
and as emily kneels beside her, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the top of her head, she thinks about how lucky she is.
not elizabeth. her.
she gets to do this. she gets to love aria.
she gets to hold her, care for her, show her in all the small ways that she is safe, that she is loved, that she is hers.
elizabeth prentiss doesn’t deserve this.
she doesn’t deserve the sweetest little girl in the world.
she doesn’t deserve to be the one aria reaches for in the middle of the night.
she doesn’t deserve to be the one aria giggles for, the one she whispers “wub you, emmy” to, the one she trusts with every sleepy little sigh.
no.
elizabeth is not lucky.
she is a fool.
because she has no idea what she’s missing.
after aria is dressed, emily sits her in her lap, grabbing the small hairbrush from the dresser. aria’s head tilts, leans, settles against emily’s arm, the soft bristles smoothing through her damp curls in slow, steady strokes. her blinks are heavier now, longer between each one. but she’s fighting. emily sees it—the way her eyes flutter, her lashes brushing against her cheeks, her body sinking further into emily’s hold. and then, just for a moment— her eyes roll back, her body slackens, her little hand loosens its grip against emily’s leg— but she jerks herself awake with a tiny, sharp inhale, her little fingers curling again, her body forcing itself back into wakefulness.
emily watches, amused, pressing a kiss to her temple. “you okay, baby?”
aria blinks hard, fighting through the drowsiness, her voice so quiet, so slurred with sleep—
“mmm… not sleepy…”
emily smiles, shaking her head. “sure, bug.”
she sets the brush down, giving the last strands a final smooth, then shifts, slipping her hands under aria’s arms, lifting her up. aria makes a small, content sound, but doesn’t fight it—just rests, pressing her cheek against emily’s shoulder, her tiny fingers curling into the fabric of emily’s shirt. emily swallows against the lump in her throat.
because this? this tiny warmth pressed against her? this small, trusting body that leans so fully into her? this unconditional love?
it is not elizabeth’s. it is hers
aria’s eyes are closed, her little body warm and heavy against emily’s chest. but her grip?
firm. her tiny fingers clutch the fabric of emily’s shirt, her whole body curled in, tucked close, like she knows—even in sleep—that emily is hers.
“s’eep with emmy…”
it’s quiet. pleading. barely more than a breath, murmured into emily’s shoulder, but it reaches her—cuts right through every resolve she has left. emily tries her best not to fall into the whole co-sleeping thing. she read it was bad. then she read it was good. then bad again. and honestly? she didn’t fucking know. but she did know that she couldn’t tell aria no. not tonight.
if aria had asked for ice cream for dinner and to run naked around the house like she sometimes, somehow, ended up doing— emily would’ve let her. she presses a kiss to the top of her head, shifting just enough to adjust her arms, carrying her toward the bed with slow, careful steps. aria sighs into her, her little body molding easily to emily’s, completely trusting in the hold, in the certainty that emily will keep her safe.
once aria is settled in bed, tucked in with her worn-out stuffed rabbit clutched in one arm and her fingers still curled loosely around emily’s sleeve, emily slips away.
just for a moment.
she steps into the bathroom, flicking on the light, the glow spilling softly into the room behind her. she washes her face, dragging damp fingers through her hair, the cool water helping but not fully clearing the weight in her chest. she grips the sink edge, staring at herself in the mirror, watching as her reflection shifts slightly with each deep breath she takes.
her eyes flicker behind her— to the bed. to aria. the reflection in the mirror catches her first— aria’s tiny form, curled up beneath the covers, the dim light from the bathroom casting a soft, golden glow over her peaceful little face. emily turns, looking at her fully.
she’s so small. so calm, safe, here. she has no idea how much has changed. no idea that a single piece of paper had made emily hers forever.
emily swallows hard, gripping the counter for just a second longer before flicking off the light and stepping back into the room. she slides into bed beside aria, shifting carefully so she doesn’t wake her, but aria still senses her immediately. tiny fingers, barely awake, reach for her, curling into the fabric of her sleeve again. emily exhales, slow and deep. she tucks herself in, wraps an arm gently over aria’s tiny frame, letting her warmth sink into her own. the only sounds filling the room are the rhythmic hum of the city outside, the occasional creak of the old apartment building settling, and the steady, even breaths of the tiny girl pressed against emily’s side.aria sleeps deeply, the kind of sleep that only toddlers seem to achieve—completely lost to the world, trusting that when she wakes up, everything will be exactly where she left it.
emily? she doesn’t sleep quite as easily. not at first.
she lays awake for a while, staring at the ceiling, one hand resting on aria’s tiny back, feeling the way it rises and falls, slow and sure. she listens to the tiny exhales, the small, unconscious hums aria makes in her sleep, the occasional shift of her little body as she burrows further into emily’s warmth.
emily could have put her back in her crib. could have held firm, could have told her that big girls sleep in their own beds. but the thought of it—of untangling those tiny fingers from her shirt, of pulling away from the warmth of her small body, of placing her down in a crib that suddenly feels too far—she couldn’t. not tonight. tonight, aria needed her.
and maybe—maybe emily needed aria too.
at some point in the night, aria shifts, rolling half onto emily, her small face pressed fully against emily’s chest, her warm breath tickling against her collarbone. emily stirs slightly, adjusting, but aria clings, one tiny hand fisting into emily’s shirt again, as if even in sleep, she knows—
knows that emily is hers. knows that she’s safe. knows that this is home. emily breathes her in, presses a slow, steady kiss into the soft mess of dark hair, and lets her own eyes finally—finally—fall shut.