A/N: This story is my vision for the return of the Emily Prentiss and Jennifer Jareau characters to Criminal Minds. The story is femslash in nature and will be six chapters long. The frequency with which I upload new chapters will depend on reader feedback. I hope you enjoy it.
AFTER THE STORM
And after the storm,
I run and run as the rains come.
And I look up, I look up,
on my knees and out of luck,
I look up.
The AVE high speed train gradually came to a stop at the Madrid Atocha, having made the 628 km trip from Barcelona in just under three hours. In the first class car, a large, burly man stood from his seat. He wore dark sunglasses in an attempt to disguise exactly where his gaze fell, but the movement of his head made it clear he was surveying his surroundings. The front of the car. Clear. The rear of the car. Clear. The other passengers. Clear. Stepping into the aisle, the man silently nodded to his companion, the row's window seat occupant. The second man was older and of a slighter build but the way with which he carried himself made it clear that of the two men, he was the one in charge, the one to be feared.
The two men made their way to the car's forward exit, the larger man in a constant state of awareness. As they stepped onto the train station platform, a third man, still on the train, carefully folded the newspaper he had been reading before tucking it into the pocket of the seatback in front of him. He also had been in the first class car, seated in the last row. Without a glance towards the front of the car, the passenger slung his backpack over his shoulder and made his way to the car's rear exit.
The train station was crowded with tourists on holiday. The man with the backpack put on sunglasses and a gray ballcap. In jeans and a t-shirt, he easily could have passed for any of the other tourists, which was his intention. He made his way through the crowd, keeping a safe distance between him and his targets. Exiting the platforms, the two forward leading men began walking east before crossing the busy Calle de Mendez Alvaro and disappearing down a side street.
The man in the ballcap quickly followed, still being careful to maintain a large enough distance so as not to arouse any suspicion. The side street was not nearly as busy as the station but there still were enough people and activity to allow him to not stand out. The sun gradually was descending on the horizon, as night approached, forcing him to remove his sunglasses. He followed the men for a few minutes, before they turned down an alley. He continued walking, past where they had turned, before quickly darting down the next alley. The alley was narrow and poorly lit and seemed to be about a hundred yards in length. Realizing this was his chance, he removed his hat and ran the entire length as fast as he could before crouching down in the shadows.
He slid his backpack off his shoulder and reached inside, removing a Glock handgun. He could hear the footsteps of the two men in the next alley over. He discarded the backpack on the ground and slowly emerged from the shadows before silently making his way towards them. When he reached the exit to their alley, he stepped out of sight. From his position, he knew he'd have the advantage on both men when they came through the opening.
As he waited, calculating his moves in his head, it suddenly occurred to him that their footsteps had stopped. He held his breath, straining to hear any indication of what their movements were. Hearing nothing, he slowly leaned forward and darted a glance down the alley. Nothing. Quickly deciding what to do next, he squared up and stepped into the opening, his weapon raised. The alley was completely deserted. Confused and with all senses heightened, he cautiously took a step forward, moving his gun from left to right.
A noise behind him captured his attention and he quickly spun around. But it was too late. Despite his size and athleticism, he was no match for the burly man, who now held his arms above his head, his gun lying useless on the ground.
"Agent Derek Morgan of the FBI," came a voice from the shadows. As the man behind the voice stepped from the darkness, he lit a match and raised it to the cigar in his mouth. The man inhaled as the light of the match touched the end of the cigar, causing it to glow. Shaking out the match with one hand while removing the cigar and exhaling the smoke before continuing, "I thought that was you on the train. What could you possibly be doing in Spain? I hope it's not because you're looking for me."
Taking the silence from the subdued man as the only answer he needed, Ian Doyle smiled, "Ah, it is because of me. I truly am flattered, but I'm afraid you're wasting your time." He took another puff of the cigar while pacing in front of the FBI agent a few times. "Hmm, what am I going to do with you?"
"You better just kill me because I'm not going to stop until I'm dead or you are."
The Irish mobster stopped and looked at the agent. "That's interesting. Because based on your current situation, I think I know which one of those it will be." There were a few moments of silence while Doyle seemed to be considering something. "You know, if you're looking for someone to blame, your energy is better directed at Lauren or Emily or whatever her real name was and not on me."
This caused Morgan, who up until now had been trying to save his strength, to visibly strain against the bigger man, trying to breaking free. But it was to no avail, the big man seemed able to restrain him with ease. Doyle laughed, "I see you disagree with this, yes?"
"Emily was a good person, she didn't deserve to die."
The smile on Doyle's face quickly vanished. He took a hard step towards the FBI agent, as if to strike him. "Emily deserved exactly what she got. That bitch took from me the only two people I ever cared about." Doyle hadn't intended to say this and it was a mistake Morgan quickly picked up on, being an expert profiler.
"Two people? Oh, I see. This was never just about your son. This was about Lauren, too." Doyle pretended to ignore him so he pushed further. "You didn't deserve either of them. They both were better off without you." With this, Doyle removed his concealed weapon and took a step towards the profiler, raising the barrel.
Surprisingly, he didn't pull the trigger. Instead, after a moment he collected himself and took a step back. "Agent Morgan, you're right. I do need to kill you." Taking another step back, he continued, "but not here. I am going to enjoy this one since you deprived me of enjoying Emily's death." Turning his gaze to the man holding Morgan, he commanded "Scotty, go get the car. I've got Agent Morgan here under control." Scotty released Morgan and went back the way the men had come, his heavy footsteps echoing.
Morgan sized up the situation, trying to figure out a way to gain the upper hand on Doyle. Predictably, the Irishman knew this was what he was thinking. He made a tsk tsk noise while shaking his head. "Agent Morgan, I really hope you don't force me to shoot you here."
Morgan raised both his hands but before he could respond, a sound behind him got both of their attention. Mindful that Doyle was pointing a gun at him, he only turned his head to look over his shoulder.
Sensing his opportunity, Morgan glanced at the other man, not moving his head. Without hesitation, he lunged forward, reaching for the gun. Doyle was caught off balance sending both men tumbling towards the ground. As they fell to the hard asphalt, Morgan's head connected with the rough surface.
Dazed, but not unconscious, the FBI agent rolled over and tried to stand, knowing he needed to find Doyle's gun before the mobster did. With his head injury, he was unable to get to his feet and resorted to crawling on his hands and knees. He didn't know where Doyle was but he assumed he was too busy dealing with an injury of his own. The unmistakable sound of the hammer of a gun being cocked behind him let him know he was wrong.
On his knees, Morgan turned towards the sound, his hands raised. Doyle stood ten feet from him, his gun pointed directly at Morgan's face. Wiping a bit of blood from his own mouth, Doyle spoke, "I'm sorry Agent Morgan, but you've left me no choice."
A single gun shot rang out, the noise reverberating the entire length of the alley. Doyle stumbled forward, clutching his shoulder of the arm that had been holding the gun that Doyle now released from his grasp. He leaned heavily against a dumpster before slowly sliding down the front of it and sitting on the ground, only a few feet from Morgan.
Still on his knees and still recovering from his head injury, Morgan was having difficulty making sense of the situation. As he looked to where the bullet had come from, a figure slowly stepped into the light, gun first, then hand, arm, body, and finally, a face. Morgan was speechless.
Which is why Doyle was the first to speak, still clutching his wounded shoulder, his eyes wide. "Impossible. I killed you, you're dead."
Her gun unwaveringly still pointed at Doyle, Emily Prentiss took a step towards him.
"Aww, I missed you, too, sweetheart." Her voice was so cold and callous, Morgan never would have believed it was Emily Prentiss speaking if he weren't looking right at her. "Emily?"
Prentiss switched her gaze, but not her gun, from Doyle to Morgan, her demeanor immediately changing. "Derek, are you okay?" Her voice had softened considerably, taking on a tone of concern for her friend.
"Yeah, I think so... but... how?" Morgan still hadn't yet risen to his feet, but he wasn't sure if it was because of his head injury or the shock of seeing his previously dead, now very much alive fellow profiler.
"Morgan, I'll explain later. I just need you to trust me right now, okay?" Emily's focus was still on Morgan, so she didn't notice as Doyle took advantage of her shift in attention and slowly reached towards his gun with his good arm. His fingers grasped the cold metal, lifting the handle into his palm. In one quick motion, he raised the gun and fired at the brunette in front of him.
In his haste, he wasn't able to aim properly, and his shot went wide, although it was enough to make Prentiss lose her composure. Doyle steadied his grasp on the gun and leveled it directly at his former lover. He wasn't going to miss this time.
But the Irishman was dead before his finger had a chance to even touch the trigger. As soon as Doyle's first shot had rang out, Morgan had gone into reflex mode. Without hesitation, he had reached towards his left ankle, removed his back up weapon, and eliminated the target. He remained kneeling, one knee up, one knee against the asphalt, both hands holding the gun still trained on Doyle. Seeing the dead stare of the other man's eyes, he finally lowered his weapon and got to his feet.
Emily slowly stepped up next to him and kept walking until she was standing directly over Doyle. She raised her gun and tried to pull the trigger, but her gun jammed. Frustrated and cursing under her breath, she began desperately tugging at the weapon, accomplishing nothing towards fixing the jam, but taking out her aggression all the same.
Morgan stepped forward and placed one hand on her shoulder, one hand on the gun, removing it from her grasp. His voice was gentle, "Emily, it's over."
Emily looked at Derek, her eyes wild. For a brief moment he thought she might begin to cry or maybe even collapse. But the look was gone in an instant. The brunette stiffened, pushing up her shoulders. The emotion was gone from her voice again. "Let's go home, Derek."