Her Mother's Daughter - Hotchniss

chapter eighteen: little dark age

"The ruins of the day / Painted with a scar / And the more I straighten out / The less it wants to try / The feelings start to rot / One wink at a time / Forgiving who you are / For what you stand to gain / Just know that if you hide / It doesn't go away"

-

Hotch went back up to Emily, who sat up upon seeing him. "How is she?" He sat back on the bed and put his arm around his girlfriend.

"Well, she wants you to know she's not upset with you. And that you can talk to her, she won't 'get pissy' with you, as she says." Emily chuckled.

"But she's okay?"

"Says she is. She is having nightmares. She doesn't want help, though. I think you should talk to her,"

"Yeah?"

"Yes. She was very mature. At least, she certainly tried to be,"

"Yeah, she's like that. She gets really standoffish and defensive,"

"I don't know if she'll want therapy or what, she seemed very set in the fact that she doesn't want help. I told her she doesn't have to be so independent and it wasn't shameful to ask for help. She still said she was fine. I honestly don't know what else to do, Emily. I'm...sorry."

"Not your fault," she said with a slight chuckle. "Bridget is stubborn. She's certainly my daughter." Hotch laughed.

"She is, she can be stubborn. And ultra-independent," he added.

"Damn, Rossi hit the nail on the head when he said she was like me." Hotch squeezed her tighter.

"She is stubborn, and independent, like her mother. And she doesn't like to show her feelings. But she's also incredibly caring, and she's a wonderful girl. I love our daughter very much; and I guess I love you, too, Emily."

Emily was grinning like an idiot. Her hand rubbed his chest and he kissed her.

-

She went down to talk to Bridget, who fought off the urge to roll her eyes when she saw her mother approaching. "Hey, Bridge,"

"Hi,"

"I didn't...the only reason I wanted your dad to talk to you over me was because I didn't know if you were upset. If you blamed me for, for your nightmares, honey,"

"Mom, it's fine." Bridget held up her hand.

"Are we good, honey?"

"Yeah, of course. Didn't know we weren't before," she laughed, turning back to her book. Emily advanced and sat on the end of Bridget's bed. Bridget marked her page and closed the book, keeping it in her lap. "Are you okay?"

"You've been...you've been through a lot, and..." Emily saw Bridget start to close off. She hated when her mother went on this spiel. "If you're having nightmares, let's get you help for it,"

"How? They're nightmares, Mom, not strep,"

"You get startled by sudden loud noises. You keep your hands on the table and sit criss-cross in your chair at meals because you're thinking about being tied up. You look at your scars all the time and try not to cry. You've lost about ten, fifteen pounds, I'd guess. You have to have at least one light on when you sleep in case someone comes in. You've barely slept a good night in a year, honey."

Bridget had slunk away from Emily and was curled up in a ball. Emily continued, "I've been trying to give you time, let you come to me, but I can't sit by anymore and watch you suffer like this. Have your nightmares been getting worse recently? Be honest with me,"

"I don't know," Bridget mumbled, "I guess." Emily put her hand on Bridget's leg and gave her an understanding smile.

"It's been a year. Since I was gone. Five months since Doyle,"

"I'm a mess, you can say it," Bridget scoffed through her tears.

"You're not a mess, sweetie," said Emily, gripping Bridget tighter. She came up to sit next to her. "It's PTSD. And it sucks, babe." They both laughed. "But you don't need to be so stoic all the time. You're allowed to have a bad day. You can ask for some help. We are not upset with you, not at all. None of it is your fault. You have never disappointed me, it's not even possible, honey." A smile crossed Bridget's face, like she was about to laugh.

"Even if I dropped out of school to be a circus clown?"

Emily laughed and rolled her eyes. "You cannot disappoint me. But I will not pay your clown college tuition." They laughed together, for what felt like the first time in forever.

Bridget sat for a minute, her and her mom just existing together, before Bridget laughed and asked, "You know how when I was little and you raised your voice, I'd just start crying? You said you thought it was for attention or pity, that thing kids always do, but after a while you realized I was just actually upset?"

"Yeah," said Emily. "Why?"

"Y'know, like, fight-flight-freeze?"

"Of course, baby, I'm a profiler," said Emily. Bridget smiled before it faded.

"I always freeze or flee. But when Doyle was in front of me, I fought. He tried to kill me; I brought up his son, I grabbed the knife, I tried to fight him. Like, physically, fight him. Didn't work out great, clearly," Bridget laughed. Emily chuckled with her. "I don't know why I fought,"

"It was what your body thought you had to do to survive. And you're alive, honey. I couldn't be more proud of you."

After two weeks of stewing in the conversations with her parents, Bridget agreed to go back to therapy. She already took antidepressants, but had ceased therapy six months after Emily had "died", insisting not to go back, and JJ reluctantly agreed. Because her primary care physician was technically the prescribing doctor, she continued on sertraline; now, her dosage was upped.

Over just the next two months, Emily already saw a huge improvement in her daughter. Hotch noticed it, and saw that Emily was happier, too.