Chapter Text
It's a house. Definitely a house. She knows she can get in—don't ask how, she just knows. Smells like turkey and cinnamon, and somehow her arms are loaded with a wine bottle and a jar of cranberry sauce. Why? No idea. She shoves the door open with her hip. The kitchen greets her first. Well, still looks like a random house, yet here she is, like she was meant to be.
The sound the fires is one of a gunfire. Straight from a TV that faces the couch, her feet dragging themselves across the floor.
She squints. She's got a headache—a real pain-in-the-temples special.
There, on the couch, sprawled out, is a boy.
Well, a guy... see, better off say kid, because he looks hardly eighteen. His shoes are off (naturally), socks mismatched (criminally), and there's a headset perched on his head. He's yelling into the mic, "cover me"
She stands a few feet away from it, unmoving. Processing. Processing...what, exactly? She blinks, thoughts foggy.
Why is she here again? What was she doing?
"Turn that... thing down, it's... really loud," she manages to get out, the words tumbling awkwardly, her tongue tripping over itself. The only word that lands with any clarity is ‘loud’.
Kid doesn't look away from the TV but raises a single hand in acknowledgment. A wave? A swat? A dismissal? Hard to say.
"Jesus, mom. One sec. Top ten situation here."
Top ten situation. Okay.
Now that makes so much sense why his face is so... familiar. And why the house is familiar. And why is it that everything seems perfectly in place—everything except her? Mom, he said. She's someone's mom? What happened to her. She forgot her own son? God, this feels weird. Loud. Noisy in ways it shouldn't be. Maybe she needs to sit down. Or just—lie down? Five minutes. Five minutes of eye shut. Things will be fixed then.
She drops the wine onto the kitchen counter with a solid thud, then kicks off her boots. The couch is buried in a tangle of pillows and blankets—her son's nest. She reminds herself, don't forget that. That she has a son. That feels far too important to slip her mind.
There's an empty energy drink can on the coffee table, next to a bowl of half-eaten cereal that has gone soggy.
"What's up, lady? Grocery run wear you out?" He just asks, doesn't even spare her a glance.
"Just gonna take a nap."
Because it feels like the damn right thing to do.
But at the same time, she really wants to puke, the nausea gnawing at her from deep inside.
Kid's head jerks up, and for a second—half a second—he looks... pretty fine, relaxed. But then there's the double take, one where panic sets in almost immediately, draining the color from his face. "Shit, what happened to you?”
Her hand reaches the spot he's staring at on her forehead—takes more effort than it should, clumsy—and she touches it. Then her cheek. Wet. Too wet. Sticky. She glances at it, just out of curiosity.
Red.
Huh. That's not good. Definitely worse than she thought. Probably should've given this situation a little more credit.
"Dad!"
Last thing she hears.
The world takes a dive. Everything goes black.
-
"Emily Elizabeth Prentiss," Doc says, tapping the clipboard in his hand, "That's you, ma'am. How are we feeling today?"
She blinks. Emily. Well, that's... definitely a name. Weird. Alien. She swallows. "Don't know. Not great. But... I don't know. I think I'm supposed to know."
He nods, gives his glasses a nudge of finger. "It's normal. You're working to piece things together. You did take quite a hit when you fell. It's a miracle you got up the way you did, honestly."
Her gaze drifts to the window. Fell. Fell? Is that what happened? She feels a flicker of recognition, "When I crossed the street, the car..."
He nods. "It's a good thing you remember that."
Doc continues, but it's such a blur.
The words aren't... sticking.
"It's not unusual for people to experience memory loss after such trauma, Ms. Prentiss. The thing is, we don't know exactly how far back the memory loss goes. Some of it might come back slowly. It's hard to predict, and it's important not to force it. If your memories come back on their own, great. If not, well..." He pauses, then shrugs. "We can't rush it. Just take it easy. Let your brain heal."
Oh.
Right.
Not much can be done about her, can it.
Doc steps back, and before he can fully leave, she catches a glimpse of something—or someone—standing by the door.
The kid—house kid. Her son. And when she looks at him, it's this weird pie of déjà vu and, actually, maternal instinct on steroids. The eyes, man. Big, scared, like he's a tiny, trembling mirror of something she's already seen. Many times. For many years. It's crazy. She knows this kid means so much. She cares so deeply. She'd take a bullet for him. But what's his name again? That's where the system glitches.
The doctor clears his throat. "He's been outside this whole time. Same as the man with him. They brought you in."
"I don't know their names," Emily blurts.
It's a confession.
She feels... embarrassed.
The doctor gives her an understanding nod, but the pity in his eyes doesn't help. "May I ask them to come in?"
-
No screens, no phone, no TV—it's like a tech detox camp she didn't sign up for.
She doesn't wear a watch either, because—as if she has any idea why. Best guess is fashion statement? Dumb statement. Because now time's basically an abstract concept.
Across the room, the man who's been pacing—who won't leave her side unless he's walking off the tension in his legs—stops to glance over at her. He looks rough. Tired. His eyes are red. He's been here a while.
Emily wants to ask for his name. She wants to reach out, take his hand, and tell him it's okay to just sit the hell down. But are there words? None. They're stuck. Stuck somewhere between a "Sorry I ruined Thanksgiving" and a "Can you fix my pillow? My neck's killing me."
It's a special kind of weird, being in a room with people who clearly know her, while she knows absolutely nothing about them—or herself, for that matter.
The kid still hasn't said anything. He's sitting against the wall, tapping his foot. His eyes dart between the screen of his phone and, every so often—subtly, almost imperceptibly—they land on her face, a quick check-in.
Emily decides she's had just about enough of this weird, suffocating silence. Her chest feels like it's hosting a drum solo, but she forces out the words, aiming for casual—emphasis on aiming. "I can remember a few things."
The man's attention snaps to her.
"I remember living in Amsterdam for a year when I was eleven. And I remember my mom's nickname is Lizzy," she blurts, then immediately averts her gaze. "I know, it's a stupid thing to remember. Not exactly game-changing information." A pause, then her eyes dart back up, and she asks: "By the way, where is she?"
"Your mom is—" He pauses, and the hesitation in it is nails on a chalkboard to her. "She says she'll try to come down from Boston for Christmas," he finally says, adding, "She also says she's sorry about what happened."
Oh. Sounds about right. Emily presses her lips into a tight line, nodding. "Do I have to stay here long?" she asks, steering the conversation into safer waters.
He seems to notice how stiff she looks fixing her head. One hand slides behind her neck so very smoothly, surging her forward carefully while the other hand takes care of the pillow under it.
His fingertips brushing over her scalp, her chin pressing against his shoulder for the briefest moment.
Then, quietly, because this is perfectly close enough to keep it from her son's ears, she says, "I know we're married, but... I don't actually know your name."
Back he pulls, immediately, his hand stays right there on her neck, big and steady, eyes finding hers.
She winces—yeah, she gets it. She's absolutely not at her best. Doesn't even know her own husband's name. "Sorry, I'm trying to, I-"
He shakes his head, just a slight movement, but enough to freeze her mid-sentence. Her lip tucks under her teeth, her throat starts to itch, and damn it, here it comes, her eyes are about to give her away.
"It's okay," he says. "You can't keep forcing them to come back. They'll come. I'm Aaron. That's my name. Aaron Hotchner."
Tears are teetering on the edge, just a pinky's worth from spilling over, when her eyes drift to the kid on the futon, typing away on his phone. Then back to the man. Aaron. Back to Aaron.
She doesn't need to ask this time. His thumb gently brushes a tear from under her eye, "He's Jack," and he tugs at the corner of his lip, his mouth working on something—then he shifts, changing course entirely. "Here, lay your head back. Let's see if this works better."
-
She's offered help with just about everything. Thank God, because she's got twelve stitches running from her forehead to her cheek, twenty on her leg, six near the crease of her armpit, four under a rib, and eight on her left foot. Yeah, help is definitely needed.
She can't even brush her teeth by herself. Her arms barely move, aching with stinging pain. So, Aaron—God, this is seriously embarrassing—knocks on the bathroom door the morning after they get back from the hospital. She's in there, so she says, "Come in," and when he does, he finds her standing there like an idiot, holding a toothbrush, staring at herself in the mirror.
"Hey, you okay?"
She shakes her head, no, she's not okay.
And he just... does it for her. Brushes her teeth.
Sounds weird, but doesn't really feel weird, not really. She spits in the sink, and he wipes her bottom lip with his thumb, his hand helping her chin stay still.
It's gross, toothpaste and drool are inevitable chasers for his hand, but he doesn't seem to care.
He helps her rinse and asks, "All good?"
She nods, clears her throat—this is fine, right? He's her husband, so it makes sense, doesn't it? It's probably just that this feeling of intimacy doesn't make her recoil. So it's okay. And it's nice. She doesn't shy away when he helps her change her clothes, clasps her bra, and then helps a pink T-shirt on, and a sweater—his sweater, she realizes. She watches him mostly, but her eyes sometimes drift to the pictures on the wall, the thick carpet, the lampshade.
"Where's Jack?"
"Downstairs. He made you pancakes," he says, giving her a look—kind of an eye twitch, good luck with that look, fingers crossed it's at least edible look. She works her jaw to loosen it, meeting Aaron's eyes for a few seconds before he tilts his head, now it's what is it, huh look, and he grabs her wrist, and tugs her sleeve down to her knuckles.
"This sucks."
"It's temporary. They'll come right back at you."
"I can still sleep here with you," she blurts out. "I don't want him to think this is going to change things for us, I mean. I don't mind sharing a room."
Aaron takes a moment with it. "Jack's a big boy. He understands that you might need a moment."
That's not how she sees it. She just—she can't stand the idea of her son having to deal with so many changes, on top of the fact that his mom can't even remember his favorite show or what he loved to eat when he was five. Her eyes stay on Aaron's, unmoving, with her eyebrows slightly arched, enough to make her point.
He steps forward, brushing her bare feet with his socks, and he presses a quick kiss to her forehead. Just a peck. "I see. You sleep here tonight. Now, you and I are going downstairs to eat. You need food."
-
"Wait, did you see this week's list? They're releasing a raspberry butter cake cookie. What's that even supposed to mean? Are you kidding me? That's offensive in at least twenty countries, how good that must be," Jack rambles, piling two more pancakes onto his plate.
Emily chews her mouthful, watching as the two of them shift to discuss about something new every two minutes. She doesn't say much, but she notices Jack keeps refilling her plate, and honestly, she doesn't mind—she's starving. Isn't a big fan of hospital food.
Jack pokes at Aaron's plate with his fork, tapping it thrice for emphasis. "Can I take mom to try Crumbl Cookies?"
"I don't know," Aaron replies, glancing at her. "She needs to rest."
"Just like—drive-thru. C'mon. I can drive her, she'll be fine." Then, turning to her, Jack says, "You like Crumbl Cookies."
"Do I?"
-
"You're nineteen," she murmurs once they're in the car, the memory surfacing like a faint light in a fog. "I remember that."
Jack flashes her a big, toothy grin, resting a hand on his chest as if her words have touched his very soul. "My God, you just can't help it. You love me too much."
She smiles back. That's funny. He's such a funny kid. God, Emily feels this pang of jealousy for her pre-accident self—the version of her that had all his jokes, every little moment, tucked away in a fond drawer in her mind.
But it's okay. It's fine.
They go. They eat in the parking lot. And, honestly, Jack has a point—the cookies are, as he says, "fire." Very yummy things. They manage to save some for Aaron, because, as Jack puts it, "He says he doesn't like sweets, but he'll talk my ear off for a week if I don't bring him any."
By the time they're done, Emily is more than ready to head back. A headache is starting to creep in, persistent. Jack notices, she knows he does—doesn't push, doesn't comment, and drives her home.
-
It's not exactly expected for the house to be crowded with voices when they walk in. As they make their way to the kitchen, Emily's eyes dart over faces she doesn't fully recognize—people who feel familiar but don't settle into a name or memory. Five people. A blonde woman stands beside Aaron, her hand on his shoulder in a comforting rub.
Aaron covers her hand with his for a moment before his gaze shifts up and finds Emily has joined the kitchen too.
Wow, he really needs the comfort, Emily thinks, his wife can't remember shit, but then, Jesus, keep your hands to yourself.
"Hey," she greets them all, watching Jack move through, taking turns hugging each person.
"She has no idea who you guys are," Jack sing-songs, earning a small laugh from the group. "And I'm taking her to her room so she can nap for a few hours. Cookies are tiring carbs. She needs the rest before dinner."
"Did something happen?" Aaron asks just as Emily steps closer, shaking her head with a small, gentle jerk of her lips. Nah, her expression should read, I'm fine, see?
There isn't much thought—really, none at all—she leans in and brushes her lips against his half open mouth.
Just a peck, but it sparks something in her stomach that burns real fire, plus an itchy thing.
When she pulls away, Aaron's tongue flicks over his lower lip. His eyes skim over her forehead first, her stitches, then back to her eyes, searching.
"I'll just..." she starts.
"Yeah, go," he says softly, his thumb grazing her lips like a gentle wipe. "You need the rest. They just wanted to see you."
"We can come back later," the blonde woman offers.
Emily glances up at her, then Aaron again, catching the faintest smile at the corner of his lips, then nods. "You guys should."
-
"Did you kiss Dad on the mouth?" Jack makes a mock gagging noise as he helps her take off her second shoe. "Grossest thing I've ever seen in my life."
"Seriously?" she says, watching him move from shoes to pillows.
Kid's going above and beyond—super attentive to every detail, even grabbed her a fluffier blanket from his dad's closet. So, she makes the effort to lie down on her own, but feels every pull of the stitches in her stomach as she settles. Ugh. Nope. Don't cry. Just... cut out the grunt before it escapes. Keep it together. "You've definitely seen it before."
And Jack just... looks down at her, hands on his hips, clicks his tongue. After a few seconds, he shrugs.
"Well, yeah, of course. Still gross."
-
Another day, same routine, except this time Aaron wakes up in the same bed as her—actually, she wakes up in the same bed as him, before him.
But he gets up right after—like, two minutes after she's off the bed, he's knocking on the door. He brushes her teeth again—this time, she's half asleep, half in pain, and his chest is solid enough for her to lean on as the bristles of the toothbrush clean her tongue.
He helps her wash her hair too. She asks him to.
"Well, the least you could do is take your clothes off, too," she jokes.
He doesn't, but it pulls a smile out of him.
"Hey, um, I'll take Jack back tomorrow. To college. It's a three-hour drive. What do you think? How's your head?"
"I can return our son to his dorm, yes," she says, not quite ready for the way Aaron looks at her.
He tilts his head, watching her, just watching, and watching nonstop, dimple deepening in his cheek. "Our son, huh," he repeats.
Emily leans in, tearing the space between them to give him a watery peck, noisy little touch of lips. Two, to be more accurate.
He watches her long after she pulls away. "Can I, uh, ask you something?"
"Anything." Emily says, because why not.
Rubbing his hand down her arms, gently removing the soap that's still clinging to her skin. "You said you knew I was your husband, at the hospital. How?"
"I just..." Wow, okay, now that she thinks about it, how did she know? The kid called her mom, and she just assumed the guy with him was his dad. But, well, it's not that simple. It was... "I knew."
-
Emily's fingers thread through Jack's soft blonde hair.
Aaron flips through a book next to her, and then her eyes land on a frame on the wall. A blonde woman and a little boy who looks way too much like Jack.
It is Jack.
No, yeah, it's him. The name 'Haley' rings in her head.
"Who's Haley?" she asks.
The room freezes.
Emily's heart lurches, because.
Wait.
She remembers. The blonde woman from the other day, the tiny boy in her arms, the bloodstains, the funeral.
Haley.
"I, no, it's— You don't have to—" she attempts quietly.
A palm presses against her left hand—Jack's—and she immediately clings their fingers together, a little too tight. Damn it, there's no way she's holding it together now. She's crying, but it's quiet, the tears pooling down her collarbones. Aaron's hand finds a spot on her back. "It's just... it's coming back now. Sorry. I'm sorry, honey, Mom's sorry," she whispers to Jack, squeezing his fingers. Her eyes catch his, and it really is painful when she actually sees his lashes incredibly wet. "I didn't mean to—"
"I'm okay. Promise," Jack says, and damn, the kid's too good—he's got that sweetness dialed to eleven. He gives her knuckles a kiss, and like—the tiniest throat-clear one can muster, after all that, he adds, "Let me get you a glass of water."
-
It's like four in the afternoon, fresh off one ridiculously long nap that shouldn't even count as nap. Emily yawns, still in pajamas, as she opens the front door someone was just knocking on.
On the other side stands a woman who looks, well, way too put-together for this hour, young too—probably in her thirties or something. Blonde. Nice dress, boots that probably cost more than Emily's medical bill. And that last one was spicy.
"Hey, it's you..." the woman says, sort of friendly-like?
Emily frowns. Who is this? But instead of asking, she just gives the barest nod. What, she's curious.
"I was wondering if Aaron might be home? I left my favorite jacket here, like, two months ago. I said I'd stop by and grab it, but—well, you know, life."
Emily frowns even harder, her hand playing on the doorknob, fidgeting her sweaty palm around it. "You're like... his..."
"Girlfriend," she replies simply, matter-of-fact.
Emily's heart does a free-launch straight to her throat.
"Well, ex-girlfriend," the woman clarifies. "Emily, we had dinner together. You don't remember me?"
"I had a—" she starts, but holy hell, her head feels like it's about to fall off her neck. It hurts. Hurts a lot. She presses a hand to the side of her head, eyes squeezed shut, just waiting—begging—for it to stop. "Shit. Shit."
"Are you—" the woman steps closer, reaching out, but Emily flinches back from her touch.
"Emily, do you need help?"
"No, it just—" Emily breathes out, her voice shaky as she leans down, collapsing into a crouch. A strangled, pained cry escapes when the stitches in her leg explode like fireworks, some of it probably popping open. "Help, yes, I'd like that."
"Wait here," the woman says, already moving. "Aaron!"
"Emily," she hears Aaron's voice then, footsteps approaching. "Jesus, what did you—"
But she doesn't hear what comes next.
-
Everything. Emily remembers everything. And if there were a hole in the ground the exact size of her head, complete with a straw for oxygen, she'd dive in without hesitation. Right now. Because it's Hotch, not her husband. Sweet Jack, yes, but not her son. Not really.
-
On the drive home from the hospital that same night, she sits in the front seat, silent until, "That's kind of embarrassing. I'm sorry. For—"
"C'mon," Jack cuts in from the backseat like the absolute champ he is. "None of it was your fault. And we'd tell you, but Doc said to not overwhelm you. We're all embarrassed. Both parties involved can shake hands and move on."
Emily nods, blinking down at her nails before slipping one between her teeth.
"Emily, no, no—we grew out of that habit," Hotch sighs, disapproving.
"Well, I'm bringing it back," she shoots back.
And then—after a second, or maybe several seconds too many—she points an accusing finger at him. "And you," she says. "You saw me naked."
From the backseat, Jack gasps. "You saw Emily naked?"
"And we kissed," Emily adds, because she's clearly on a roll now. "How could you not just look at me and say, 'Emily, I'm not actually your husband—you can stop throwing yourself at me'?"
"Barely kisses—those were—" Hotch has the audacity to roll his eyes at her. "I wasn't exactly losing sleep over a couple of pecks and catching a glimpse of your tit, Emily. I was sick worried about you."
"I never thought I'd hear the word tit come out of your mouth, Dad," Jack pipes up from the backseat.
Emily stares out the window, a fingernail between her teeth. She's actually upset. She has every right to be. Barely kisses. Right. Well, those so-called barely kisses kind of meant something to her, thank you very much. How insensitive.
Irritation surges through her—a bold, fiery type—and she spins around in her seat, glaring at Hotch. "You didn't like kissing me. Is that what you're saying?"
"Emily," he says, not taking his eyes off the road as he rolls his neck, the universal Hotch gesture for this conversation is giving me a migraine. "When did I say that? I never said that. You're twisting my words. I said—" He stops, sighs, and chances a quick look at her face.
Whatever he sees there shuts him right up. He makes a quiet pop with his lips, reconsidering it. "If it's important to you, then—"
"Never mind," Emily snaps, chopping him off mid-sentence. If it's important to you? Oh, screw him.
"I can earmuff if you want," Jack offers helpfully. "I mean, that deserves it. You thought about it."
"No, honey, it's okay," Emily replies, glaring daggers at Hotch. "He knows what I want to say to him now."
-
They eat burgers that night. A "celebration". We should've brought you a cake, Jack jokes, shortest memory loss in history.
Jack also calls her mom twice, and she doesn't correct him. She can't. She wants to—actually—cry. Like, full-on, real tears. Then he says it a third time when Hotch reminds him they'll need to get up early tomorrow to drop him off at college. "Is Mom coming too?" Jack asks casually, the most natural thing.
And she lets it slide. She'll let it go until he decides to stop—if he ever does.
It doesn't feel wrong. Not even a little.
Emily can't help but wonder how long this 'mom' has been lurking in the wings, 'cause man, it sounds so natural coming from his lips.
-
Two knocks on her door—actually, it's just the guest room door—and she already knows who it is, no words necessary. "No, I don't wanna talk."
"Emily," Hoych's voice oozes with the equivalent of an eye roll. "You can come to my room."
"Why would I?" she retorts, but the real answer is obvious—the bed's way better. And he smells good. And it just makes more sense if she needs him to literally every single thing.
"What if you need to use the bathroom."
"I can handle peeing on my own," she mutters. It might be a pain to sit down with no help, because stitches are hell, but she'll survive. "I'll be fine."
"You know this is..." he trails off, and Emily just glares at the door from her spot on the bed. "Alright, fine. Do what you think is best."
"Goodnight."
"Knock if you need anything."