Her Mother's Daughter - Hotchniss

chapter nine: one step ahead

"But I'm still here / After all those years when you thought I was dead / I was one step ahead"

-

JJ and Hotch were increasingly pained by Bridget's grief. They missed Emily while she was in France, but for all intents and purposes, Bridget's mother was dead. She knew no different.

"Hotch, is there no way we can tell her?"

"Absolutely not,"

"Hotch—"

"It's not safe. You know that, JJ,"

"I know." She ran her fingers through her hair. "She's hurting,"

"I know, and it's killing me too, JJ; you know we can't do anything. Not until it's safe for Emily to be back."

-

She woke up tied to a chair, her left ribs searing in pain. Her face contorted to a harsh wince. She was hardly breathing, everything hurt: head, ribs, wrists and ankles from being bound. Where the hell was she?

What had Mom taught her? About profiling? It was hard to conjure any complete thought in the state she was in. Her vision, though blurred, was clear enough to see a man around her. His arms were crossed as the room spun.

"You're awake." What was this accent? She could hear it slightly, but he hadn't said enough. "Bridget. Young Bridget. Where...is your mother?" Bridget stayed silent. The man walked up and slapped her. "I asked you a question,"

"She's dead. She's been dead for seven months." Her eyes cleared. This man was almost familiar, but she couldn't place him anywhere. Some connection to her mom, evidently.

"I know you're a liar. Where is she?"

"She's dead!" she spat. She couldn't waste any energy on trying to escape.

Ian Doyle.

"Your son..." Bridget had little time, as far as she knew. Her half-built thoughts had to reach him. "Declan. My mom killed him? And now you want to hurt her the same? She's dead, and your son's alive. Haven't you won enough?"

"Your mother's taught you well. She's good at her job. But I'm better at mine."

Doyle kicked the chair over, nearly hitting Bridget's head on the floor. The chair, being so fragile and wooden, broke underneath her, and Bridget's shaky legs carried her to fight him. What was she thinking? A 5'4" sixteen-year-old girl, already injured and exhausted, trying to beat a terrorist in hand-to-hand combat? He pulled a knife and stabbed her in the abdomen. She stumbled back, clutching the wound, and he slashed just above her left eyebrow. She didn't think it would work, grabbing the knife, so when her hand was cut, she was almost slightly impressed with herself, though that was overshadowed by the intense pain. Doyle kneed her in the stomach, stabbed her once more, threw her to the floor, and kicked her twice before a shot rang out.

Bridget was losing blood, and the pain and slight concussion from being thrown on the floor several times made her dizzy and half-conscious. JJ ran to her and called for medical. "Hey, Bridge, stay with me, okay? You're gonna be fine. Everything's okay, you just gotta look at me. Bridget, hey!"

-

Emily and JJ were in the ambulance with her as she flowed in and out of consciousness. She couldn't remember anything until she awoke in the hospital bed. JJ, Hotch, and Emily were in the room with her as the former two filled the latter in on the events of the past seven months.

"Mom? I'm dead, aren't I?" Emily smiled softly.

"No. We're both alive, honey. And I'm so, so sorry—"

"Stop. Please. Just someone tell me what the hell is going on."

The trio took turns explaining as Bridget cried, unable to look at her mom. "Do you know...how terrifying these last few months have been?" she asked, her voice filled with pain but remaining so quiet. JJ pressed her eyes shut and sighed. Emily shook her head. Hotch looked away.

"I can't imagine," Emily sympathized. "You should never have had to go through this, I'm so sorry, Bridge—"

"Please." Her voice shook. "I can't. I'm so tired." She shook her head and tried not to sob.

After she fell asleep, JJ went home to get some clothes for Emily, hoping something from her own closet would do, leaving the couple alone with their daughter. "So I'm assuming JJ knows about us?" Emily asked softly.

"About the first time, background for Bridget. Nothing since,"

"Ah. Does anyone else?"

"No." Emily sighed in relief. Hotch sat in thought before saying, "You have to understand, Emily, she's not the same kid she was when you left. She's been...she's grown a lot. She had to." They looked at their daughter. "This isn't going to be easy, for either of you. Bridget..."

When he trailed off and shook his head, Emily pressed him. "What? She what?"

"You don't need that. I'm not trying to hurt you, Emily. You understand how hurt she is, I'm not going to torture you by explaining it in circles." Tears sprung to Emily's eyes.

"Tell me, Aaron." Even in their relationship, she mostly called him Hotch. "This is my daughter. I need to know." He sighed and glanced at Bridget.

"Emily, you died fighting Doyle. That letter was the last communication you ever had with your daughter until tonight. You said you were doing it to protect her,"

"Because I was. I wasn't going to let him hurt her." Her eyes flicked to Bridget, stitches above her eyebrow, bandaged hand slit by the knife, and ligature marks on her wrists, easily visible to Emily from where she was sitting.

"A few months ago she asked me what would've happened if you didn't leave that night. If you'd stayed,"

"What'd you tell her?"

"That you would likely be dead, and then she would be, too." He stared at Emily. "She didn't say anything back. She just stared at a picture of you two." Emily shook her head and pressed the sleeve of her shirt to her eyes. "She blamed herself. From that letter, she knew somehow it wasn't her fault, but it killed her that you died protecting her. Garcia got to her before she could get too deep in that,"

"Thank god,"

"But she still feels guilty. She'll understand this, someday,"

"But she's traumatized. God, what have I done to her?" Hotch stood and Emily joined him, her head against his chest as she cried. He stroked her hair and bit his lip. "I can't hurt her anymore, Aaron, I can't..."