*Author's Note: Set during the season seven finale, "Hit/Run".*
"The night is dark and your slumber is deep in the hush of my being. Wake, O Pain of Love, for I know not how to open the door, and I stand outside. The hours wait, the stars watch, the wind is still, the silence is heavy in my heart. Wake, Love, wake! brim my empty cup, and with a breath of song ruffle the night." ~Rabindranath Tagore
"It's a beautiful night," Beth turns her blue eyes up to the starry heavens, taking a deep breath to inhale the clean, crisp smell of the country, the freshly-cut grass and the sharp scent of pine trees.
"It is," Aaron agrees quietly, though his gaze is fixed on earthly things.
She rests her head on his shoulder as they continue swaying to the music, and he is grateful for the action, because it means that she can't see his face—she can't see him staring across the dance floor, can't notice to ask what's wrong?, can't bring up all the things he's thinking about right now.
Emily Prentiss is less than twenty feet away, moving to the same rhythm as she whispers something in Spencer Reid's ear. Reid replies, and she laughs, and Aaron can't help but notice how she lights up when she laughs, and it makes him smile as well (she'd been so tearful, so sorrowful and depressed earlier, when she'd told him that she would talk to him on Monday).
Then she is quiet again, shifting closer to Reid as her arm slips under his, hand traveling back up to his shoulder blade in something that is between a caress and a simple embrace. Her chin is on his shoulder and her soulful dark eyes are distant, seeing things that aren't really there, looking ahead to some inevitable event.
And Aaron knows. He knows what her mind's eye is seeing, knows the things that she is going to say whenever they sit down first thing tomorrow morning, knows all the things he doesn't want to know (not yet, not now, not on this warm and lovely night, not on a night so full of promise and happiness and possibility).
This stone of knowledge settles into Aaron's stomach with a cold weight, surprising him with the depth of his reaction. Agents come and go, it is part of the job (and you count yourself lucky if they go of their own accord, not in a heavy polished casket), and it is not the first time that a team member has left, is not even the first time that Emily Prentiss has left.
But somehow, this time feels so much more final than the last. Because Aaron Hotchner is a realist, a pragmatist, and he knows that the laws of probability are not in his favor—she's already resigned once, left another time via witness protection, and this time, she won't gravitate back to them. Emily is a strong woman—she never makes a decision until she is certain, and though she may doubt her certainty after the decision is actually made, she'll still stand beside her choice.
That is something that he's always admired about her. Her strong moral compass, her determination, her sense of honor. There are other things he admires, too, but he tries not to think about them, because dwelling on them will only make him miss her even more—miss her before she's even gone, miss her before she's even told him that she's leaving.
The song ends, and others are switching dance partners. Derek Morgan slips up to Aaron and Beth, lightly opening his hand for Beth's as he smiles, "Excuse me, Hotch, but I think I need to steal this lovely lady away from you for a few minutes, so that I can tell her tons of horribly embarrassing secrets about you."
"Oh, now that's an offer I can't refuse," Beth is laughing, following Derek's lead as he moves gracefully across the floor. She offers one last smile over her shoulder at Aaron, and he waves her on, grinning at Morgan's antics.
This is his chance. He quietly appears beside Emily and she turns slightly, as if she were expecting him.
"Prentiss, would you like to dance?"
She offers a weak, wobbly smile, the corners of her mouth trembling like the pulse of her heart, so full of so many tumultuous and contradictory emotions. He smiles back, equally uncertain and nervous.
"Good lord, Hotch, even on a night like this, you can't call me Emily?" She offers a joke, something to break the soft sad tension between them, and he grins slightly (and she is completely enamored with his adorableness, she doesn't get to see this side of him very often, and she feels a pang at the realization that she'll probably never get the chance to see it again).
"You know me," he gives a self-deprecating shrug. "Always the agent."
She smiles softly, her hand easily finding his as her arms comes around him. "So not true."
"You're right, it's not."
"Consider yourself warned: I am not the most graceful person. Your toes might not like me after this."
"I am well aware of your lack of grace. And your toes are in equal danger of being crushed, so I think we'll at least be evenly matched."
She laughs, and for a moment, the ghosts leave her eyes, and he knows that he would say anything to keep her looking carefree and happy.
Oh, perhaps he should have waited until the next song—this one is slow, so very slow and whisperingly romantic, the kind that makes every move full of thought and intention. A few beats pass as they adjust to the rhythm, and during this stilling of their thoughts and bodies, Emily has become quiet and almost-regretful again.
She doesn't look into his eyes. Instead, her gaze drops to his tie, her voice faint and trembling with uncertainty and unvoiced emotions, "Hotch, I—"
"Don't." His voice becomes slightly softer as he adds, "Please."
He knows what she's going to say, long before she says it. So instead, he simply holds her, foolishly hoping that if she doesn't say it, then it isn't really happening. And he prays that she won't say it, not yet, prays that she'll let him have this last quiet moment of play-pretend.
She acquiesces, perhaps because she feels the same way, perhaps because she really does care for him, and she will spare him, just a little while longer.
He holds her gently, as if he fears that she might break, as if she is a fragile thing of spun glass, and this fills her with adoring amusement (after all they've been through, after all the times he's seen her walking from the rubble with soot in her hair and blood on her face, he still treats her like a delicate, precious thing, and after all the times she's seen him kick down doors, weapon drawn and harsh and commanding, she still feels the tenderness in his touch).
And Emily knows. She knows that Aaron has read her like a book, knows that he understands exactly what this moment is, what this moment means.
He isn't speaking, so she doesn't either, though there is so much she wants to say (but, oh, she never could, not anymore, not now). Instead, she pulls him closer, trying to feel something more solid (after all, this is their first and last dance, their first and last chance, tomorrow morning, it won't matter if she has made a fool of herself, because tomorrow morning will be the last time that she has to look this man in the eye).
He feels her shift, and he automatically pulls her closer as well, her hip bone touching his as they continue to move in-sync (enough to feel the weight, not enough to be obscene, still innocent but still so much more than they've ever touched before).
She simply rests her head on his shoulder, and he doesn't pull away or ask why—instead, she feels him melt into the embrace, silently accepting whatever this action means—and the hand on her back is moving in slow, comforting circles (she thinks he probably doesn't realize that he's doing it, it's so distracted and lazy, something his hand does while his mind is busy trying to unravel whatever this is between them). She thinks (she knows, she hopes) that this is how he would hold her afterwards, if they ever made love—quietly, calmly, soothingly, his fingers leaving incoherent patterns across her skin as she cries (she always cries when she comes, she doesn't know why, but she always has, ever since she was in college).
Aaron wills himself not to think ahead, not to think that this is the last time they'll dance together, the last time they'll quietly sit here and refuse to acknowledge the little things bouncing between them, the last time for a first time. Instead, he pushes himself to focus on this moment—this moment and this moment only, because that is all that is guaranteed (Haley taught him that, it was her greatest legacy to him, aside from her love and her son which is his son, too).
He focuses on the weight of her hand in his. Her fingernails are bitten and ragged again (stress, he knows, and he knows that what she is going to tell him tomorrow has been fraying at the edges of her conscious mind for some time now, but they've been so good at ignoring unspoken things for so long that he's never mentioned it, never mentioned how he's noticed her pulling and drifting and nail-biting and fearing), but her hand somehow still looks elegant, with her long, thin fingers and her pale skin.
Her skin. It's so pale that he almost can't see the edges of the scar on her left breast—the scar that reminds him of just how close he came to losing her, losing her like he lost Haley, because he was too late. He doesn't regret sending her away, pretending that she was dead—it kept her safe, and he'd do it all again. Of course, being without her had made him realize that he did miss her, made him realize all the ways and reasons that he missed her, made him realize how he'd taken her presence for granted (her sarcasm, her funny laugh, her big eyes that didn't miss a single thing, her need to please that she still tried to overcome, her intelligence, her wit, her ability to walk away from burning buildings with some smart-ass quip that made everyone smile and reduced the stress, her calmness, her logic, her quirks, even her nail-biting).
Her hair. It smells familiar, something from his past…gardenias, like the kind his mother used to have growing by the back door. She smells like home, like safety and comfort and all the things that he'd always seen in her, though he has never acknowledged them until now.
Her breathing. Always shallow, controlled, weighted and measured, like every other aspect of Emily Prentiss' life. He remembers all the times that she has proven the theory of mind over matter (her past as an undercover agent, the time she was beaten by Cyrus at the Separatarian Sect—I can take it, the way she survived her own demons with such amazing detachment that none of her team members had even known of their existence, the things she did for Declan), and he feels another wave of deepening admiration and respect for this woman, for her strength and her fortitude, and he knows that it will take her far, though he hates knowing that it will take her far from him.
Emily can almost feel Aaron mentally savoring each moment, and she wants to cry at his sweet attentions, at how he is slowly etching this night into the memory-book of his mind, at how his quiet and careful observations are telling her all the things that his quiet and careful lips cannot.
This is all that Aaron Hotchner can give to her, all that he can offer without too much loss, too much pain. And she understands this—she accepts this, knowing that she'd never ask for it, for anything, and knowing that she could never ask for more, because she cannot give him all these wonderful things in return (not in the way that he needs, not in the way that is best for him, and she thinks he knows this, thinks he understands as well). She also knows that this night—this sweet, soft night and its haunting music and beautiful people and romantic scents—is just a cocktail, a thing that creates an imaginary feeling of nostalgia, a longing for something that never truly was. She is certain that he knows this, too (he is a smart man, a logical man, a strong man, not one to be swept away by the moment and the emotion), so she doesn't point this out, but rather allows him this simple moment, this time to ignore the facts and to imagine that this is what it isn't, what it never will be.
The music changes and she is swept away by Morgan again. She dances with Penelope and JJ, she laughs with David, and Aaron takes her hand again (this time, he doesn't ask, he doesn't call her Prentiss, he tries to be happy, tries to pretend that he doesn't know, that this really isn't happening, tries to make her smile again, to make her laugh and forget that this is happening, too). And again, she smiles and offers little jokes, and they don't speak about the thing that is between them, dancing around their feet like a little yipping dog that is never mentioned but never completely ignored.
Again, he holds her softly, and again, this makes her fill with the sweetest sadness. They stop speaking and simply move together across the polished wood floor, both feeling and sensing the emotions of their partner, both quietly absorbing the unspoken thoughts and small actions of each other.
At the end of the night, he will go home with Beth, with his son, to something solider and warmer and lasting, and she will go home to her still-unpacked apartment, to pack up the few things that she'd taken out since her return, to prepare to say goodbye again to this life and these people (and this man, and what this man could have been to her), to finally admit to the odd feeling of not belonging that has been clawing at the back of her throat for months now.
And tomorrow morning, the sun will rise, and these weird, tender, nostalgic almost-regrets will dissipate like the early morning mist in the summer sunshine. But for now, they linger, slipping around their bodies and minds like curls of smoke, clouding their eyes with the haze of what-might-have-beens and chances untaken. And for now, they are both content to live in this moment of play-pretend, to let their minds and timid, foolish hearts wander down paths too fragile for the harsh light of day.
She rests her chin on his shoulder, snuggling closer to his neck, her lips so close that she could kiss the skin above his shirt collar (but she doesn't, because she could never do something so brash, not even in a moment like this), and he shifts slightly in response, his own head almost resting against hers, his own mouth just a breath away from her ear, so close that he could easily whisper all the things flittering around in his heart and mind (but he doesn't, because it's too late and he's not even sure that he can quantify these emotions, much less put them into words, and he knows that on some level, it would only make things worse, and that's not what he wants, not for her, not in this poignant last moment).
Tomorrow, they will talk of resignations and transfers and how-soon-will-you-leaves and paperwork and red tape, in low, schooled, professional tones, sitting in tight and rigid lines, walking along the path of neutrality and mere colleagues. But tonight, they do not speak of such things. They speak of all the things they've never spoken of, and they still don't breathe this thoughts aloud—they tell them to each other through the short declaration of a glance, the whisper of a touch, the ebb and flow of their movements to the love songs drifting through the night.
It is not everything they want, but it is perhaps more than they ever hoped. Emily learned long ago not to expect too much from life, and Aaron has learned the lesson of letting go in many painful ways.
"It's a beautiful night," Emily finally speaks, her voice breaking slightly.
He understands the meaning behind her words, behind her tone—thank you, thank you for this moment, for this beautiful night, for giving us this lovely farewell, for giving me something more, after all this time.
He nods, quietly agreeing, "It is."
You're welcome. It's too little, too late, but it's…it's what I have to give. Thank you for allowing this, for following me in this moment, for trusting me like you always do, like you always have.
She gives a small nod of her own, and he knows that she understood his meaning as well, because she simply pulls him closer, turning her head to rest against the crook of his neck. He is drawing circles on her back again, and she suddenly realizes that they aren't circles, but hearts.
"Morning without you is a dwindled dawn." ~Emily Dickinson