She loves Silent Night.
Not because she's particularly religious—she's not. But her father was, and she has fond memories of him putting on the victrola (he always was old-fashioned) and the slightly-crackly sound of Bing Crosby filling the house. Other Christmases it would be more eclectic versions, with guitar, xylophone, sitar, tribal drums and flutes. But every Christmas Eve, he would sit with her on his lap in front of the fire and they would sing, as her father labeled it, a lullaby for Jesus.
His family wasn't religious either, and they weren't wealthy. Christmas usually meant a bit more tension between his parents, since they were both home, and a new copy of Melville or Byron from his mother, and some sort of gadget that was advertised with running boys in the background from his father.
Once his father had left, he'd more been worried about where dinner would come from than a date on a calendar.
But they had their traditions too. His father would make hot chocolate with candy-cane stirrers (even though he's pretty sure, looking back, that it was instant), and it was always delicious. They would put up their artificial tree in the corner of the living room and it would be beautiful (even though he's also pretty sure it was frighteningly tacky), sparkling with lights and the sort of foam ornaments he'd made at kindergarten (they don't have many of those, since he was only in grades that did such things for about four months).
But most important of their traditions was the big red leather-bound book on the top shelf, that his father would always get down. They'd gather around his mother's big chair in front of the heating vent and read about Scrooge and Tiny Tim and miracles.
That's the only time that he can't remember his parents fighting over, ever.
And after the grand 'The End' from his father, he was always bundled off to bed to await his Byron and his boy-friendly toy underneath the tacky, artificial tree.
Maybe he didn't have sugarplums dancing in his head, but the Ghosts of Christmas made a fine substitute for a five-year-old boy.
Even after his dad was gone and his mother was sleeping off her pills on Christmas Eve, he would drag over a kitchen chair and get down the big red book, blowing off a years' dust (after he turned twelve he was surprised to not need the chair anymore), and read it to himself. Sometimes if his mother was awake, she'd read it too. It's one of the few books that he actually attempts to slow down, to let the moment last a little longer—a moment of hot chocolate and no arguments and maybe—just maybe—miracles.
They do both of those things now. He'll put on Christmas music that Garcia gave them one year and they'll decorate their tree (a real one, Emily insists. He doesn't mind.) and carefully place each others' presents underneath. Then he'll switch it to Bing Crosby (not on a victrola any longer, sadly, but a plain old CD player) and they'll watch the fake fireplace flames flicker. She'll rub his foot with hers and bury her face in his shoulder, and he'll wrap an arm around her waist and they'll read Dickens. It's not the same book—that one's at Bennington with his mother—but the same edition and a nameplate that reads Emily in large, childish letters. Her favorite character is Bob Cratchit, interestingly.
Every Christmas Day, too, the entire team gathers at Garcia's apartment or Morgan's house (Garcia calls it the 'Ingathering of the Exiles', and everyone laughs because it's so true) with their various significant others and eventually with small feet pattering along behind, and they'll watch a Christmas movie. Garcia refuses It's a Wonderful Life or White Christmas, so they usually watch Home Alone, Christmas with the Kranks, or The Santa Clause.
Everyone thinks it's ridiculous, but they keep coming back. One year JJ wasn't there (in New Orleans with Will's family) and she professed to have felt incomplete until she, Henry, and Will had watched it at home. Rossi rolls his eyes every year, but always comes, and it's one of the few times when Hotch will unwind and smile. Garcia and Morgan always end up throwing popcorn and M&Ms, and it gets everywhere (one time down Emily's shirt. Garcia, Morgan and Rossi had a field day with that one).
Half the time, the movie gets paused and ignored for the rest of the night as the entire team tries to relax before work the next day (no rest for the wicked, Garcia always sighs, and Morgan invariably turns it into a dirty joke, and promptly gets smacked in the head by Emily or Rossi).
But when the night is over and they go out in ones or twos or eventually sixes (Rossi blames Elizabeth. Really.) They know they've wound down their Christmas traditions for the coming year. And when she leans her head into his shoulder as they wander down the block, he wonders how he's ever done without it.