I think this might be the most emotionally difficult thing I've ever written.
For reference, this is Em's haircut: www . menshairstyletrends wp-content/uploads/2016/01/braidbarbers_and-medium-hairstyles-for-men-all-scissor-cut . jpg
Also, in case anyone cares, I listened to Lady Gaga's Born This Way on repeat the entire time I wrote this.
"Reid, you stay at the precinct and coordinate. Dave, you and I will be outside the club with local police. Morgan, Prentiss, I want you inside," Hotch handed out the assignments for the team's bid to catch their unsub, a sexual sadist who was targeting women in Boston's nightclubs. "Prentiss, I need you to catch Keyes' attention, you fit his victimology."
The rest of the team froze, eyeing their boss uncomfortably.
Prentiss's mouth opened and closed a few times before a stammered "H-Hotch..." made its way past frozen vocal cords.
"What the hell, man," Morgan added. "Prentiss doesn't fit the victimology at all."
A year previously, before Doyle, before months away and soul searching and realizations and testosterone, yes, Prentiss would have fit the unsub's preference of dark-haired women in their thirties, but now the dark-haired agent had a deepening voice, hair cut short in a classic masculine style, and patchy facial hair that was regretfully shaved off every morning - at least until it filled in more. Emily Prentiss now went by Emile, although the change wasn't yet legal.
A year ago, Prentiss would've put on a dress and vamped it up to catch a killer without thinking about it. Now, it would've been just as appropriate to ask Reid to don a pair of stilettos.
Hotch sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I know. I wouldn't ask if there was another option. If JJ were here, I would have her go in, but she isn't." He met Prentiss's gaze, holding back a flinch at the mix of anger and hurt lurking in the dark depths. "I'm sorry. Obviously I won't force you to do this, but I do think it's the best way to draw Keyes out."
Prentiss looked thoughtfully down at the floor, aggressively chewing on his lower lip. After a long moment, he looked back up, squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw against the faint nausea rising in his stomach. "All right. I'll do it."
"Em," Morgan protested, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You don't have to."
Prentiss met the darker man's eyes and gave him a determined, if slightly pained, look. "If it helps catch Keyes and get justice for those nine women, then yes, I do." Clearing his throat, he looked back at Hotch. "How long do I have to get ready?"
"Can you be at the club in two hours?" Hotch asked after looking at the clock.
Prentiss nodded tightly and left to go buy the necessary dress, makeup, and long wig, heading back to the hotel to get ready.
"So would it be inappropriate to call you 'pretty boy'?" Morgan teased as Prentiss joined him near the club's front doors.
"Morgan..." Prentiss sighed.
Immediately sobering, Morgan wrapped his arm around his friend's shoulders. "Hey, it's gonna be okay. Couple hours, tops. This isn't going back to Emily - we all know who you are, Emile, and this isn't gonna change that."
Taking a deep breath, Prentiss nodded. "Yeah. It just... feels like I'm wearing someone else's skin."
"Goin' Ed Gein on me, man?" Morgan joked, considering himself successful when Prentiss gave him a wry smile.
"Yeah, Morgan," Prentiss said dryly. "I'm gonna dig up a few graves and make myself a skin suit. Ew."
"Yeah, on that note, you ready to go in?"
Prentiss smoothed his hands down his thighs, grimacing slightly at the silky material wrapped around him. "Yeah, let's get this over with." With a deep, steadying breath, he forced his mindset to shift, bringing back Emily for the evening.
Morgan watched with interest as his friend's body language changed, expression clearing before a smile pulled at the red painted lips. He shook his head slightly, marveling at the change. If he didn't know better, he'd think that Prentiss was like any of the women in the club, just looking for a good time.
It ended up taking longer than expected, as Keyes didn't even show up to the club for two hours, and it was another hour until Prentiss managed to get close, get him to take the bait. As soon as the cuffs were around the man, Prentiss grabbed the keys to one of the SUVs from Hotch, leaving without a word.
He wouldn't admit to almost getting into an accident, hands badly shaking as he gripped the wheel, speeding back to the hotel.
Back in his room, Prentiss kicked off the heels, stumbling as he did. The wig was next, and nausea hit him before he could shed the dress, sending him running to the small bathroom, violently ill. When he finally calmed enough to stand, he leaned heavily against the counter, head hanging down as he breathed through his emotions.
Lifting his head, he looked at the face staring back at him. Feminine, he thought, seeing the red lips, the smeared mascara. His gaze moved down, to the cleavage pushed into prominence by a lacy bra and low-cut dress. A primal sound bubbled up in his throat, ripping out of him in a scream, his fists coming up to smash into the mirror, glass falling to the sink and counter, embedding into his knuckles.
Blood soaked into the fabric of the red dress as he tore it from his body, undergarments following suit until he was naked, panting and crying. Turning the water on full blast, he cupped his hands under the stream, splashing it onto his face and scrubbing harshly at his eyes and mouth. Only when the makeup was completely gone did he shut the water off and leave the bathroom.
As he stood there, part of him wanted to find comfort in the trappings of his masculinity. His binder. His packer. The things that shaped him like the man he was.
Another part of him, the part that still tasted vaguely like vomit and felt like glass embedded in bleeding knuckles, felt too raw, too broken, to rebuild himself this soon. Emily still lurked in his mind, and he didn't want to taint Emile with those feelings.
Finally, he pulled on a pair of pajama pants and an oversized FBI t-shirt.
That was when the knock came.
Prentiss opened the door to see Hotch standing there, and his jaw clenched. He stepped back from the door, silently inviting the other man in.
Stepping inside, Hotch let the door close before speaking. "Prentiss, I wanted-" His words were cut off by a heavy slap, and bringing his hand to his jaw, he said, "I'm surprised you didn't punch me."
"I wanted to hit you, not rip your face open," Prentiss grumbled, pulling out a travel first aid kit from his bag.
"What?" Hotch reached out, looking down at the shards of glass glittering across Prentiss's knuckles. "Jesus, Prentiss, what did you do?"
Shrugging, Prentiss retrieved his hands and opened the kit. "I'm gonna owe the hotel a new mirror," he admitted, digging out the tweezers.
"Let me do it," Hotch offered. "It'll be faster. And I owe you."
Prentiss eyed him for a moment, before handing over the tool and sitting at the little table in the corner of the room. Hotch sat in the second chair, and carefully, diligently, began picking glass from the younger agent's hands.
"Why'd you do it?" Hotch asked as he worked.
"Define 'it,'" Prentiss countered, looking up at the ceiling and hissing in a breath as one of the larger pieces was pulled from his skin.
Hotch thought about that, there were several 'its' over the course of the evening. "Break the mirror," he finally settled on.
"Didn't like what I saw."
Silence again. Then, "You saw Emily, didn't you?"
Prentiss snorted. "Didn't you? Don't you still, even now?"
Hotch paused in his work, and looked at Prentiss very seriously. "I don't see Emily."
"Don't lie to me, Hotch," Prentiss said tiredly. "You sent me in there to be Emily tonight. If you didn't still see her in me, you wouldn't have done that."
Going back to removing the glass, Hotch considered Prentiss's words. "I suppose," he said slowly, "I'm still used to having Emily around. I know," he forestalled any protest, "it's been a year since Emily was part of the team. I think you underestimate how much I relied on her."
"She's gone, Hotch," Prentiss whispered. "For all intents and purposes, she was killed by Ian Doyle."
Glancing up, Hotch gave a half smile. "Even when you were gone, sometimes I still found myself turning to where you should have been standing, about to ask your input. You're back, but you're not. It's... I'm adjusting." Picking out the last piece of glass, Hotch leaned back in his seat. "I am sorry. I wasn't thinking today, and I certainly didn't mean to upset you."
Prentiss watched him closely, analyzing his expression, the look in his eyes. Finally, "You can never ask me to do that again."
"I won't." The promise came quickly, easily.
Then, "I forgive you."