The room was spinning.
Emily Prentiss took another swig of her drink.
She was drinking cheap vodka from a crystal champagne glass in a backless red ball gown — a new low for her, perhaps, and yet she had to admit she wasn't completely surprised that it had finally come to this. She'd told the Ambassador at least a dozen times this year that there was no way in hell she'd be going to the annual government Christmas Eve gala. After all, she was twenty-goddamn-years-old now, and Elizabeth Prentiss supposedly no longer had any control over her.
Yet here she was, again, just like every other Christmas that she could remember, watching her mother kiss up to every fucking politician in the DC area while managing to ignore her daughter completely.
This had upset her quite a bit as a child. After all, what kid wants to be ignored by their own parents, especially on Christmas? Not that this had been reserved for baby Jesus's birthday, of course: Elizabeth Prentiss almost always acted as though her only child did not exist. Emily could remember countless days and nights that she'd spent playing alone in her bedroom while her various nannies chatted on the phone or smoked their cigarettes on the balcony. No, being ignored was nothing new.
Emily briefly recalled the first time she'd been allowed to come to one of these dances — she'd been eight or nine, and just old enough that she could be trusted to behave in public. And she'd been so excited that she'd finally be allowed to spend Christmas with her mother... only to realize that she'd been brought along just to be shown off briefly, and then ignored again. Back at school after Christmas break, all the other kids would come with fresh stories of their fun uncles and their kooky grandmothers, and all Emily would have was the mental image of just exactly how drunk Senator So-and-So had gotten after that very public argument with his wife.
That was sort of an annual thing, too.
The parties had gotten slightly more tolerable when Emily had started sneaking wine at fourteen, but soon enough, that didn't do the trick, either. She'd switched to champagne at sixteen — they'd been living in Italy then, so it was legal. That was less fun, since she didn't have to sneak it, but also more fun in a way, because she'd get drunk significantly faster. Back to America at eighteen, more wine; nineteen, she'd made the switch to shots of vodka from a carefully-stored bottle in the bathroom. And now, at twenty, she was sipping it out of a glass without even making a face as it burned her throat.
That was kind of fun, she guessed.
Finally, mercifully, the clock struck midnight, and all of the drunk crooks surrounding her cheered. Merry fucking Christmas to me, she thought bitterly, raising her glass along with the rest of them before downing the rest of its contents. Some waiter — poor schmuck, working on Christmas Eve — appeared at her elbow almost immediately to take her empty glass away. At least that was one thing she could always count on.
Emily decided she'd had enough. Not alcohol — she'd have accepted more of that — but she'd had enough of this goddamn party. It was certainly far from over, but she'd stayed until midnight, which she reasoned was enough suffering for one day. Deciding to call a cab, Emily began to head towards the door, stumbling a bit on her way. Thankfully she'd stubbornly refused to wear heels, or she probably would've ended up on the floor by now. Her trusty old beat-up sneakers would never trip her up like that.
Emily was so focused on remaining upright on her way to the door that she didn't notice the blur of emerald green in her right periphery until it was almost too late.
She turned her head sharply to the side — fuck, the room really was spinning — and then she froze.
The Ambassador was heading in her direction, and, as if that weren't enough, she had fucking Edwin Pentel with her, and it was clear that she was trying to find him a dance partner.
Emily supposed it was a small miracle that she hadn't been spotted yet. Because Edwin Pentel was a notorious butt-grabber with a greasy moustache and sweaty palms, and there was not a snowball's chance in hell that she was getting involved in that.
Her first instinct was to run, but given her current level of intoxication, that probably wouldn't have gone too well. So she did the next best thing that she could think of — she grabbed the first unattended man that she laid eyes on, and drunkenly dragged him towards the dance floor.
"What are you doing?" he asked as she spun around and hastily put her arms around his neck, trying to blend in with the other dancing couples.
"Shut up," she hissed.
He started to turn back towards the area she'd just grabbed him from, but she tugged at his shoulder.
"Don't," she instructed sharply. "Don't look over there."
He looked down at her instead — he was a few inches taller — and the first thing she noticed were his eyes. Hazel with a little green, maybe. Not bad at all.
The next thing she noticed was the earpiece that he was wearing, which connected to the little microphone attached to the collar of his shirt.
Mother-fuck, she'd grabbed one of the security agents.
That couldn't be helped now, though. She'd just have to roll with it.
"We're dancing," she said when she realized that he was still giving her a look. Or maybe that was just his face... she couldn't tell.
"I've realized that," he told her in a flat tone as his hands came to rest on her hips. She thought that maybe there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.
His lips didn't move, though. So apparently that really was just his resting face.
Huh.
"You want to tell me why we're suddenly dancing?"
"I'm trying to avoid my mother."
A look of understanding crossed his face. "Ah, I see. You're Emily Prentiss, Ambassador Prentiss's daughter."
Her nose wrinkled in distaste, and she squinted at the credentials that were pinned to the front of his immaculately-pressed black tuxedo. "And you're... Probationary Agent Aaron T. Hotchner with the FBI," she read. Then she looked back up at his face. "You know, you are allowed to smile in ID photos."
"I'll keep that in mind next time," he remarked dryly, continuing to lead her in lazy circles across the dance floor.
She caught a glimpse of something gold shining on his left ring finger.
Huh.
"Aren't you a little young to be married?" she asked him.
"Aren't you a little young to be drinking?" he retorted instantly.
To his surprise, she let out an amused bark of laughter. "Touché."
Then she tripped a bit — of course, just in time to prove his point — and his arms instantly tightened around her waist, keeping her upright.
"Thanks," she mumbled.
"How much did you drink?"
"Not that much."
"Well, you smell like booze."
She scoffed. "Thanks."
"And... is that green apple?"
"That's my conditioner," she told him, although she wasn't sure why.
A moment passed, and then he broke the silence. "So, why are you trying to get back at your mother?"
She scowled. "I am not trying to —"
"Yes, you are."
"No, I'm not. I just hate wasting my time at political events, that's all."
"At least you get to attend as a guest. I just have to stand by the door all evening."
"You're not standing by the door now," she pointed out. "Besides, even standing by the door sounds a lot more enjoyable than pretending to have a good time with all of these jag-offs."
The slight amusement touched his eyes again. "You think so? Maybe you should work security, too."
"Hmm, no thanks. My mother doesn't approve of any career path with the word 'agent' in the title."
"And yet she does approve of you drinking half the bottle of vodka that you've got hidden in the bathroom?"
"How did you know that it's hidden in the —" she started to ask, but she was interrupted by none other than Senator So-and-So, who was, once again, in a shouting match with his wife.
Typical. Emily was just surprised that they'd made it all the way past midnight this year.
"Hotch!" another man with an earpiece and a black tuxedo called, jerking his head towards the fighting couple.
"That's my training agent," Hotch explained. "Excuse me, I guess we have to go deal with that."
"Have fun," Emily muttered. "Nice meeting you."
"You, too," he called over his shoulder as he headed towards the commotion.
She watched, like everyone else — although she hoped she wasn't gawking like them — as Hotch and a few other security agents attempted to diffuse the situation, but for once, her eyes were more on the agents in their tuxedos than on the shouting couple. The couple was old news, but what Agent Hotchner had just said to her... that was interesting. Maybe being an agent could be fun. And it would piss her mother off, which was most certainly an added bonus.
It wasn't like she had any plans for what she'd do with her fancy Yale business degree after graduation, anyways.
She was so busy contemplating this that she accidentally made eye contact with Edwin Pentel across the hall, and he started heading in her direction with a sleazy little smile on his face.
That was definitely her cue to leave.
Emily risked one last glance in that direction, hoping for some reason to catch Agent Hotchner's eye once more, but he was too busy talking Mrs. Senator So-and-So down to pay her any attention.
Oh well.
She made it back to her apartment without too much trouble.
Emily woke up the next day, on Christmas morning — or late Christmas afternoon, to be more realistic — with a powerful headache as her only companion. But for once, she realized that being alone didn't really bother her.
She made herself a hot cup of coffee and wandered over to her computer desk to do some research on how to join a federal agency.