A/N: Hello my lovelies, I'm back. I have no idea where this story came from. I just started typing and this is the product. Its dark and fluff, and its JEmily. Criminal Minds does not belong to me. It belongs to CBS, Viacom, and whoever lays claim to it. However, I will admit, that this story is somewhat autobiographical. And probably came about by the fact I have not had much sleep in three days and my mind tends to work weirdly on no sleep.

The fists coming down on you, while you whimper and huddle in a corner. You try to shield them, but you're too young, too weak to fend them off. You feel him yank you by your arm, pulling you to your feet and grabbing you by the back of the hair, pulling you closer to him. You can smell the bourbon and you whimper against your will, knowing that any sign of weakness just fuels his anger against you.

"You pathetic little bitch," he hisses into your ear. "Your worth nothing, do you hear me? Nothing." He shoves you back down again and leaves you lying there to clean up your own blood. You slowly get up, trying not to whimper in pain. You slowly move to your feet and look at the shards of glass around you and feel the blood dripping off your forehead and you sigh inwardly, because even at eight years old, you know that this is your fault.

You wake up in a cold sweat, the old nightmare coming back to haunt you. Your father's hands on you, the way his breath always smelled like alcohol and sex, even though at your young age, you couldn't have identified the second smell. You remember how you used to try and hide, but yet, you knew that he would always find you. You remember the one time he went overboard and knocked you unconscious and your mother found you.

You calm your racing heart and look at the blonde laying next to you, grateful you didn't wake her up with your second nightmare of the night. Each nightmare revolves around your father, something you never have talked about with anyone. You remember the night your mother found you unconscious, laying on the floor.

You feel yourself being shaken and you groan. Your all of nine years old and you hurt so bad, all you want to do is sleep. However, the person won't stop shaking your shoulder. You slowly open your eyes and look to see your mother. She looks down at you, her face set in stone. "Emily, get up. This is unbecoming of a Prentiss."
You look at her and stop your tears. "Now, what did you do to make your father angry this time?"
You don't answer, and she says softly, "I've told you not to make him angry. Now, clean up this mess you've made and come down to dinner. Wear something to hide the bruises so that people don't ask questions." She sweeps out of the room and right then and there, you vow to yourself never to show emotion again. At nine years old, you know that you're truly on your own.

You think back to that night and realize that was the night you stopped referring to your mother as Mother and as the Ambassador and you completely avoided your father by burying yourself in schoolwork and shutting people out of your life. You played the part of the perfect daughter, but that's not to say that the beatings stopped. They continued until you were thirteen and your father left, never to be seen or heard from again.

You sigh and roll over, staring into the darkness, wondering if you should tell JJ about this. You realize you probably should, but you don't even know where to begin. How do you explain to someone what your life was like? How it was to grow up knowing that you were abused, but never allowed to put a name on it, because to have that kind of mark on your mother's name would have looked bad on her political career. A career that was more important than her daughter.

Knowing sleep is a lost cause, you silently slip out of bed, pausing to give Sergio a scratch behind the ear before picking your sweatshirt off the floor and throwing it on over your shorts. You quietly head down the stairs and into the kitchen, getting the pot of coffee ready. Walk over to the window, sighing and staring into the inky night, wondering why you had to be born into this life. A life of privilege, a life of wealth. A life, to most people, seemed perfect, but yet, you always knew, was a sham. You had to play the part of the perfect daughter, but you knew deep down, you were anything but perfect.

Sighing as the coffee gets done brewing; you walk back into the kitchen and pour yourself a cup, walking onto your patio. The cool night breeze soothes you and you sigh, thinking. Thinking how since the age of nine you've dreamed of having a family. Not a perfect family, but just a family. A family that you could talk about your problems with, cries with, and just be there for you.

Sighing again, you wonder why your mother couldn't be a mother. Why she had to be such a political power player. Why your father loved women and alcohol more than his family. Why you were left in the care of nannies that treated you more like a daughter than your own mother. All your life, all you wanted was your mother's approval, but never could obtain it. However, that didn't stop you from trying to seek it. You still do. No matter how hard you try, you always fall short.

You brush the tears away from your eyes, hating yourself for showing even this small sign of weakness. You let your hair fall in front of your face and sigh again, knowing that for all the questions that you have, you'll never have answers. You've learned to accept things as much as you can. Suddenly, you hear a voice behind you. "Thinking again?"

You smile slightly behind that and stay silent. She walks over to where you are and you shift up so she can slide behind you. She wraps her arms around you and you lean back, laying your head on her shoulder. "What's wrong baby?"

You close your eyes and sigh and she tightens her hold on you.
"What's wrong?"
You shake your head and she starts stroking your back and you relax marginally, unable to stop the racing thoughts through your head. "Talk to me."

You open your eyes and look up at her, sighing. "Just thinking about my parents."

"What about them?"
"Thinking about how…." you swallow hard, wondering if you can tell her this. "You know how I always talk about my mother, but never my father?"
She nods and you swallow hard, continuing. "The nightmares I've been having lately have been about him. How he used to beat me and how my mother turned a blind eye towards it."

You can hear her breath hitch in her throat and you shut your eyes, not wanting the tears to fall. "Why didn't you ever tell me this?"

"Tell you what? That the great and impenetrable Emily Prentiss was abused as a child? How my mother came into my room one night when he beat me unconscious and told me that this wasn't acceptable behavior and that I needed to not make him mad?"

She takes her arms away from you and gently turns you to face her, tears in her blue eyes. You continue as she looks at you. "Tell you how I lived in fear until the age of thirteen, when he finally left? How at the age of fifteen I had sex just to fill the emptiness inside and went and had an abortion because I was stupid enough to get pregnant? How at the age of eighteen I sought revenge against my father by becoming a FBI agent so I could put people like him away? Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Tears shimmer in her eyes and you look down at your hands for a second before you feel her hand underneath your chin, forcing you to look at her. "Baby," she says softly, "None of that was your fault."

You laugh mirthlessly, and say quietly, "Not what I was told growing up. Told I was worthless and ugly and strange."

She looks at you and says softly, "You are not worthless. You are one of the most selfless, giving people I have ever met. You are strange, yes, but we're all strange in some way. And ugly?" she runs her hand down the side of your face, "not in my eyes or the eyes of anyone who has ever looked at you."

You look at her and blink, feeling the tears fall down your face. She brushes them away and you say quietly, "All I ever wanted growing up was a family. A family who was there for each other. "

"You have that now. With us, the team." She looks at you, her blue eyes locking on your brown ones. "With me. With Henry."

"Do you know how scared that I am going to turn about to be like him?" she looks at you and shakes her head. "That I'm going to lose my temper and hurt Henry."

"Baby, listen to me. You won't ever do that. You don't have it in you. You love that little boy in there as much as he loves you. You'd die for him before you'd ever lay a hand on him. You're his 'Em'ly,' the one he runs to when he's hurt. The one he runs to when he's scared." She strokes your cheek and you sigh softly, still unsure.

"This is where I learned not to be affected by things. You and Hotch once asked me how I cannot blink. This is how. I learned from an early age on how not to be affected by things. This is how I can hide my feelings."

She leans in and rests her forehead against yours, saying quietly, and "Don't hide your feelings from me. Don't hide your vulnerable side. I know you're scared to death that I'm going to leave like everyone else. I'm not going anywhere." She places her hand against your heart, and in the pale moonlight, the pale gold band on her left finger glimmers. "This means I'm yours forever. I'm not leaving."

Tears pool in your eyes and you look down at the matching band on your left hand. She follows your gaze and smiles softly. "When I gave you that, it was a promise for forever, not temporarily. I've been in love with you for a long time. I want to be able to soothe that heart of yours, to break down those walls and have you see that love can exist."

Not looking up, you say quietly, "I never believed in love until you. I never believed that it could exist. I tried so hard not to let it known what my feelings were for you. I was scared. I am scared. I'm scared that I am my father and it's waiting inside me, waiting to get out. I'm scared that you're going to leave me if something better comes along."

She places her finger over your lips. "There is no one better. You are the best, Em." She takes her finger away and brushes her lips over yours and you feel the tears fall down your face. She pulls back and you bury your head into her shoulder, letting go. The sobs that rack your body are fast and hard and she holds you tightly, not letting go. You cry for the little girl who wanted a family, for the teenager who was lost and for the adult who for so long looked for love in all the wrong places.

When the tears finally subside, you pull back and look up at her, those blue eyes full of love. She leans down and brushes her lips across yours again, whispering, "If I could kiss the pain away, I would."

She leans in and kisses you softly and you kiss her back, letting her take control of the kiss, all the fight gone out of you. She instinctively knows what you need and kisses you slowly, running her tongue around your lips before parting them gently. She takes her time, each kiss, each stroke, telling you that you are loved. You whimper and moan softly, pressing your body closer to hers, trying to melt into her.

She pulls back, and you whimper from the loss of contact. She smiles and strokes your hair. From the baby monitor on the patio table, you hear stirring from Henry's room. She stands up and holds her hand out to you. "Come on, Em. Let's go get our son."

In that moment, you know that you have finally found what you have been looking for since the age of nine. You have your family and you will never let them go. The sins of the past are slowly being laid to rest.