A/N: It's been some time! I lost the writing bug to real life, then four weeks ago me and my other half of some ten and a half years split up (long story – he's now with someone else.) This means I now have the time to write without feeling guilty, so it's back to fanfic for one last story.

This takes place between seasons 6 & 7, following from Emily's exile, so there are spoilers! It's basically my take on what could happen to get Emily back into the team. This doesn't follow on from any of my previous stories.

Excuse the Englishisms – I am not American and cannot write like one although I will do my best! This is a very short prologue – chapters of between 2000 and 2500 words will likely be the norm.

I would really, really appreciate reviews! Will try to update tomorrow...

Tread Softly

Prologue

"Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky." - Rabindranath Tagore

St Petersburg, July 2011

It was a soft light that doused the river, flickers of orange and red from the sky mirrored on the waters that were calmer than usual; certainly calmer than she had seen them be for a few days or weeks. Emily leaned against the railings, the new statue of the Tsar Carpenter, St Peter in his younger days, not far from her. It was here she was to meet him; unless she decided to flee back into the city that she now knew better than any lover.

A seagull flew overhead, its repetitive call taking her attention. Its body was a silhouette against the evening sky which was no longer cloudless, promising a thunderstorm that would fit with the unusually warm weather. Thirty one degrees Celsius; nearly eighty nine in Fahrenheit. Her shoulders were bare, the usually alabaster skin tanned, telling tales of her tours around Europe. The thick dark hair that he would have known anywhere was shorter, barely grazing her shoulders and the bangs had finally grown out. But she wasn't unrecognisable. Or at least she hoped she wouldn't be.

Emily glanced at her watch. She was a half hour early, the anxiety she was feeling in the pit of her stomach keeping her from her novel so she had left the apartment she had rented for a month to visit the river and its ever-famished gulls, the heat of the evening calling the people outside like the Pied Piper to Hamlyn's children. Familiar footsteps fell behind her and she turned smoothly, smiling. They were not the footfalls of the person she was waiting for; they were more welcome than that.

"Good evening, Natasha," the man said. "What brings you to the river? I hope you have used mosquito repellent – they are out in force tonight." He rested his elbows on the railings overlooking the river, his eyes taking in the water below.

"I'm meeting someone," she responded in Russian, the name he had used now as familiar to her as the ones she had used in Paris, Barcelona, Athens. "An old friend."

"Not as old as me," he said. "Or you would be wearing a different expression. One not quite so pensive. A lover, perhaps?"

She laughed and a seagull took flight from some perch beneath her, the sudden noise causing its movement. The thought of Hotch being her lover caused more amusement than she had felt in the past three months. "No, Vitaly, he has never been my lover."

The old man looked at her, holding his gaze for a second before nodding. "I understand. Then tell me about him. He is not local, I assume. He is American?"

Emily didn't return his look; instead focusing on the boat that had appeared in view on the river. Vitaly was the old man who sat on a chair outside her apartment, in the cafe there, drinking endless cups of coffee served by his daughter. She had played card games with him; crib, rummy, whist, and he had taken her polished Russian and made it belong in St Petersberg. He was no spy or criminal, although she was sure he had checked her cards once when she had gone to the bathroom, and she'd had him checked, just to be sure. Now she knew she could've told him her true name, her real reason for being there, and he would have done nothing more than nod. But even she wasn't prepared to risk the full truth.

"He's American. He speaks no Russian though, so don't get your hopes up about beating someone else at cards," she said. "I'm expecting him to be here in half an hour."

"But you hope he doesn't come."

Another gull flew by, this one silenced by the fish it carried in its beak.

"I don't know. I will be disappointed not to see him." The realisation stung.

Vitaly pointed at the setting sun. "Every day we rely on that star, on the turn of the earth. Every day it does not let us down. It is okay to rely on things, Natasha. They will not always break our hearts."

"He's not like that," she said.

"Like what?"

"A heartbreaker. He's a colleague."

Vitaly's eyes remained on the dying sun. "He's more than a colleague, my dear, otherwise your expression would be different. A friend?"

The water below rippled outwards towards the banks as the boat came passed. Tomorrow she would take a boat ride; being on the water would soothe her. Then she'd look into where to go next and begin to make plans. Norway was the top of her list; a visit to Oslo, then north to see the Aurora Borealis. She wasn't sure how long this exile would continue for, ended either by Doyle or by the FBI, and she felt she needed to make the most of the next couple of months before returning to a more mundane existence.

"He is a friend," she said. "Albeit an unusual one."

Vitaly nodded, standing as straight as he could for a man who was in his ninetieth year. "You will tell me more tomorrow. Or even bring him. I'm sure I can muster up a little English." He extended his arm and tapped her under her chin. "There is a blessing in everything. Now good night, and don't stay out too late. These mosquitoes feed on the blood of the night owls best."

She smiled at his statement, feeling her phone vibrate in her purse. "Till tomorrow, Vitaly," she said as the old man nodded and walked away, leaning on his stick for a security she was sure he didn't need.

Emily didn't touch the phone immediately. Instead she returned to the river, watching the sun sink into the water and the sky turn to night; the only lights that of St Petersburg behind her.

Another home away from home.