Perfection. That was how Emily Prentiss was raised to be. From young, she was the perfect little girl, her mother made sure of that. And if she wasn’t? Well then, the punishments would start. If she got anything less than an A+ on anything, she’d have to go without food for a day, because food was a reward, something that was earned. If she was sick, she wouldn’t be allowed medicine or sick days off school, because that would make her appear weak, and the Prentiss’s had a reputation to uphold. It was the worst when her father died though, because that was the first time Emily saw her mother crack.
Not outwardly, of course. No, Elizabeth Prentiss was too proud for that. But she had seen the way her mother’s shoulders slumped the day they laid him to rest, how her jaw clenched in the quiet moments when no one was watching. It was the closest Emily had ever come to seeing the woman vulnerable, and it terrified her. She watched as her mother carried the weight of grief like a heavy cloak but never let anyone else see it. She had to be perfect, even in mourning. There was no room for weakness. And Emily? She learned that lesson well.
But after her father was gone, everything changed.
Where there had once been a distant, calculating presence, her mother’s attention turned sharper, colder. And now that she had gotten older, all bruises and outward marks of abuse couldn’t be written off as a child getting into fights or tripping over things. So, Elizabeth had stopped using her actions to hurt her daughter and started using her words instead. After all, they caused no lasting physical scars. She might have been a horrible mother, but she wasn’t stupid. They still had to maintain the pretence of normalcy, albeit a single-parent household. She was an ambassador for gods’ sake—what might happen to her image if word got out about how she was treating her daughter?
And so, the insults came, sharp and cold, like a steady drip of poison into her mind.
“Why can’t you be more like your father?” Elizabeth would sneer, her eyes narrowing in disgust at every small imperfection.
“You’re too fat.”
“Too ugly.”
“Who’s going to love someone like you?”
Emily would try to hold it together, to stand up straight and endure it all, because that was what she was taught. Perfection above all else. To falter was to fail. But then came the words that hit hardest, the ones that left scars deep inside her, where no one could see them.
“How did I raise such a failure?”
“Look at you. You’re nothing.”
Her mother didn’t need to raise a hand to hurt her. It was enough to make Emily feel small, worthless, like she was nothing but a disappointment. All the things her mother demanded—perfection, success, strength—were always just out of reach. And in those moments, the girl who was taught to be perfect began to feel herself crumble, one word at a time. She never dared to speak back. Every time Emily thought about standing up for herself, about confronting the woman who broke her down with words alone, the overwhelming fear of failure kept her silent. She wasn’t allowed to be weak. She wasn’t allowed to be anything other than what her mother wanted her to be. And that truth settled deep in her chest, like a heavy weight she carried every single day.
That was probably when the panic attacks started, when the pressure of trying to be perfect became unbearable. But they weren’t something Emily had the luxury of talking about. They were weaknesses, and weakness was an unforgivable crime in the Prentiss household.
The first time it happened, she didn’t even know what it was. Emily was just sitting at her desk, working on a history assignment, when suddenly, everything shifted. Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs, so fast and forceful it felt like it might break through her chest. The room blurred at the edges, her vision tunnelling as her lungs clenched tight. She couldn't get enough air. No matter how hard she tried to breathe, it wasn’t enough. Her fingers clenched around the pen she was holding, as a wave of nausea rolled over her.
Then came the voice. Her mother’s voice.
"You never get anything right. You’re just too stupid. A failure of a daughter."
It repeated again and again in her head, a suffocating loop that refused to let go. The history textbook in front of her disappeared. Everything disappeared. In its place, she saw every moment of failure, every time she had fallen short, every disgusted glance from her mother. She felt the cold sting of rejection, the weight of expectations she could never meet, the shame that curled in her stomach like something rotten. Her hands started to shake. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps, each one tighter than the last. A dizzy sort of panic flooded her limbs, making them weak, unsteady. She pressed her fists against her chest, as if she could force her heart to slow down, force her body to stop betraying her.
But it wouldn’t.
It clawed at her relentlessly. She had to stay in control—she had to—but her body wasn’t listening. The room felt too small, the walls pressing in around her. The urge to curl in on herself, to make herself as small as possible, was overwhelming. She pulled her knees up to her chest, her whole body trembling as she tried to ground herself, tried to stop the memories from swallowing her whole. She wanted to cry. She needed to cry. But even that felt dangerous. Showing weakness would make everything worse. A dizzy sort of panic flooded her limbs, making them weak, unsteady. Without thinking, she brought her hand to her mouth, biting down on her nails. Hard. Too hard. The sharp pain barely registered through the terror, but she kept going, sinking her teeth into the nail until she hit skin. The metallic tang of blood spread across her tongue, grounding her just enough to keep from spiralling completely.
Still, her chest refused to loosen. Her fingers curled into her sleeves as she hunched over, trying to make herself smaller. The urge to crawl into herself, to curl up on the floor and disappear, was overwhelming.
Minutes passed—maybe more—before the grip of panic finally started to loosen. Her breathing slowed, just enough to stop the worst of the dizziness. The terror still clung to her, but she could move again. Her hands ached from clenching too hard. Her eyes burned, but she refused to let the tears fall. By the time she managed to sit upright again, the panic had left her drained, hollow. But there was no time to process what had just happened. No time to fall apart. She still had an assignment to finish.
So, she did.
She got an A+ on that paper. No one ever knew.
But that was the thing about panic attacks—they didn’t care about perfect grades or the illusion of control. They came without warning, striking when she was most vulnerable, most exposed. And the harder she tried to bury them, the more frequently they came.
The second time it happened, there was no hiding it.
Emily had been sitting at the dining room table, meticulously reviewing her French literature notes, when the first warning signs crept in. A tightness in her chest. A creeping dizziness. The familiar prickle of fear slithering up her spine. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to focus, to push past the discomfort the way she always had. But then her mother walked in.
Elizabeth Prentiss didn’t even have to say anything. Just the sound of her heels clicking against the marble floor sent a fresh jolt of anxiety coursing through Emily’s veins. The woman stopped at the head of the table, her sharp gaze sweeping over Emily’s notes, before she let out a disapproving hum. “This is sloppy,” her mother said, plucking a page from the neatly stacked pile. She barely spared it a glance before tossing it back down. “I expected better from you.”
Emily swallowed, trying to ignore the sting in her chest. She knew better than to argue. Knew better than to show even a flicker of weakness. “I’ll rewrite it.”
Elizabeth sighed, shaking her head in disappointment. “Honestly, Emily, sometimes I wonder if you’re even trying.”
And just like that, the panic took hold.
Her heart slammed against her ribs, her hands trembling as she clenched them into fists. She could feel it rising inside her, a tidal wave of fear and pressure crashing down all at once. Her breath hitched, coming in short, uneven bursts. The room blurred at the edges, the walls pressing in, closing around her.
Not here. Not now.
She dug her nails into the palm of her hand, trying to ground herself, trying to fight against the spiralling dread, but it wasn’t enough. Her vision swam, dark spots dancing in front of her eyes. Her lungs tightened, squeezed by an invisible force that refused to let go. And worst of all—her mother noticed. Elizabeth’s expression twisted into something unreadable as she watched Emily struggle to breathe. The girl could feel her mother’s disappointment like a physical weight pressing down on her chest. But she couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening.
“What on earth are you doing?” Elizabeth’s voice was sharp, impatient. “Sit up straight. Stop fidgeting.” Emily tried. God, she tried. But her body refused to obey. Her hands clenched at the fabric of her skirt, her shoulders curling inward as she tried to make herself small, tried to disappear entirely.
“Emily.” Her mother’s voice was ice-cold now, irritation bleeding through. “Stop acting like a child.”
A sob threatened to claw its way up Emily’s throat, but she swallowed it down. Weakness was unacceptable. Failure was unacceptable. And yet, she couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop the tears from pricking at the corners of her eyes. Elizabeth stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. “Are you having some kind of—episode?” She scoffed, folding her arms across her chest. “How pathetic.”
The words cut deep, deeper than any slap ever could. Emily felt the shame crawl under her skin, seeping into every crack and crevice. Her mother didn’t understand. She never would.
Weakness disgusted her.
Elizabeth knelt beside her daughter, lowering her voice to a whisper. “You are a Prentiss,” she hissed, her grip like iron as she grabbed Emily’s chin, forcing her to meet her gaze. “And Prentiss women do not fall apart. Do you understand me?” Emily’s breath hitched, her vision still swimming, her heart still pounding. But she nodded. Because what else could she do? Satisfied, her mother released her with a sigh, standing to her full height. “Go clean yourself up,” she said dismissively. “And when you’re done, finish your notes properly this time.”
Emily sat frozen for a moment, her body still trembling in the aftermath. But she did as she was told. She always did.
And just like before, no one ever knew.
It was a cycle. Emily worked tirelessly to get things right, to be perfect, to be the daughter her mother could finally be proud of. But it was never enough. No matter how many A+'s she brought home, no matter how perfect her performance at everything was, Elizabeth’s disdain was always there, lurking in the background. The damage her mother had done was the kind that couldn’t be erased with a bath or a good night's sleep. It was in her head. The words, the unrelenting demands, the criticism—it was relentless, and it was carving away at who Emily was becoming. That’s how she knew she had to escape. And escape she did, but nobody, nobody stays out of the clutches of Elizabeth Prentiss for long. Especially not her own daughter.
It was considered a disgrace for Emily to have joined the BAU, but despite all of Elizabeth's words, Emily had done it anyway. She had left her mother behind, chasing her own path, even if it was one of uncertainty and constant self-doubt. Emily had joined the FBI—one of the hardest and most prestigious jobs in the country. It was what everyone expected from someone like her, someone who had been groomed her entire life to be extraordinary. But what they didn’t know, what no one knew, was that Emily had joined not because she wanted to prove herself to her mother, but because she needed to escape the suffocating grip of her past.
When Emily stepped into the world of the Behavioural Analysis Unit, she thought she could leave all of her fears, her anxieties, her mother's poison, behind her. The job was a perfect fit in some ways—she had the intellect, the determination, and the ability to keep calm under pressure. But it wasn’t long before the cracks in her façade began to show. As much as she pushed herself to be perfect in everything she did, to be the best, to never fail, there was always the feeling that she was running from something. That something, deep down, was the weight of her mother’s voice, echoing in her head, reminding her that she was never enough.
But the real test came when she met Jennifer Jareau, or JJ, as everyone called her. She was undoubtedly the hottest woman Emily had ever laid eyes on. Her sparkling blue eyes that lit up every time she smiled, that luscious blond hair, and most importantly, her laugh. Oh god her laugh, what a bright and cheerful sound, like bells chiming in the wind. That laugh—it was more than just a sound; it was a reminder of everything good in the world, a reminder of the little luxuries she wasn’t allowed to have.
She was nothing like the women Emily had known in her life—nothing like her mother or her mother’s colleagues. She was warm, open, effortlessly kind, and confident in a way that wasn’t loud or overbearing, but steady and sure. JJ was happy, truly and genuinely happy. Something Emily had never known how to be.
But it wasn’t just JJ’s kindness or her presence that rattled Emily. No, it was something much deeper than that. Something Emily wasn’t ready to confront. When JJ spoke to her for the first time, with that soft, easy smile, Emily felt a wave of something she had long buried beneath the surface. It was a kind of longing, of desire—something unfamiliar and frightening. Something that had nothing to do with being perfect or achieving success. This was something that couldn’t be controlled, and that terrified her.
For Emily, who had spent her whole life under the tight scrutiny of a mother who demanded perfection, who taught her that emotions were weaknesses, it was almost unbearable to think about what she was feeling toward JJ. She had never allowed herself to think about being anything other than the tough, competent, driven agent. She had never let herself entertain the thought that maybe she was capable of feeling something more, something that didn’t fit within the rigid mold her mother had crafted for her.
The more she tried to ignore it, to push it down, the stronger it became. There was a part of Emily that wanted to be near JJ, wanted to share things with her, wanted to laugh with her and find comfort in her presence. But there was another part of her that recoiled, repelled by what she perceived as weakness. To feel this way, to long for someone in this way—especially another woman—was wrong. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, reminding her that to be gay, to desire another woman, was not just unacceptable—it was something to be ashamed of. It was something to be hidden away, buried deep in the darkest corners of her soul.
She couldn’t be this way. She couldn’t be weak. She couldn’t fall for someone who probably might never feel the same. No, she had to stay focused on the mission, on the job. That’s what she told herself, time and time again. But JJ, with her bright eyes and her easy laughter, kept slipping through the cracks in Emily’s defences. And yet, Emily resisted. She refused to acknowledge what was blooming in her heart. She kept her distance, tried to maintain the perfect professional front, tried to bury everything that made her feel vulnerable. She watched JJ from the sidelines, tried keeping them at a “just friends” stage. But the more Emily tried to stay away, the more JJ seemed to invade her thoughts, like a slow poison that seeped into her every waking moment.
It wasn’t until a particularly hard case—one that took everything out of Emily—when she found herself at her breaking point, physically and emotionally, that everything finally cracked. They had been working non-stop for days, and Emily was exhausted. Her body ached, her mind was clouded with the weight of the case. She had never felt more like she was on the verge of breaking.
JJ noticed first. She always did. There was something about JJ that made Emily feel seen, in a way that no one else ever had. And despite herself, despite everything she had fought against for so long, Emily found herself confiding in JJ that night. It wasn’t much—just a simple comment about how she didn’t think she could keep going, how she felt like she was failing—but it was more than she had ever let anyone see. And in that moment, JJ didn’t judge her. She didn’t look at Emily with pity or disdain. Instead, she offered her a hand, a simple gesture of comfort, without any expectation of anything in return.
“Hey,” JJ had said softly, her hand resting gently on Emily’s arm. “You don’t have to be perfect all the time.”
It was a such small thing, but in that moment, it felt like Emily’s entire world had shifted. She had spent her whole life striving for perfection, believing that if she could just be flawless, just be strong, just be enough, everything would fall into place. But standing there, in front of JJ, it suddenly felt like all of that was unnecessary. JJ didn’t care about or want perfection from her. She just wanted Emily, just Emily. The imperfect parts of her and all.
But she couldn’t have her. Because Emily Prentiss was the, no she had to be, the epitome of perfection.