AN: Random prompt fills in small batches. May be added to later!
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1. Well, it's never done that before.
"In my defence," Reid splutters, his expression almost as shamefaced as Emily's isn't, "it's never gone like that before…" Like 'that', Hotch assumes, means it's never ended in twenty-four trained agents pulling their weapons on him as alarms wail and Anderson attempts a heroic, but ultimately misguided, tackle of Emily.
"In my defence," Emily snaps, "my reaction to being startled isn't exactly unusual in our line of work…"
Unfortunately, for Anderson, her reaction to being 'startled' was also to throw him into a wall.
Hotch is a little proud, even as he looks down at the pile of paperwork on his desk and his two guilty agents, sighing and wondering if it's not too late to take up child-care as a career. "Reid, no more 'magic' tricks in the bullpen, especially not ones liable to be 'startling'." Reid nods, appropriately scolded. One child down, Hotch turns his attention to the other, more stubborn, one: "And Emily?"
"Yeah, Hotch?"
"Please… try not to shoot things unless they're actively attacking you."
The look on her face says, 'no promises', even as her mouth shapes the words, "Sure. Does that mean I get my gun back?"
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2. The seeds planted long ago are finally beginning to sprout.
When Jack Hotchner was born, Hotch remembers bringing him home and spending a single, brilliant afternoon lying with his infant son on a blanket on the lawn. Haley was inside. There was no one out here but him, his son, and the birds around.
And a seed. Jack's chubby hand swung around and found it, Hotch quickly relinquishing the object and, absently, pushing it into the dirt. It was never thought of again, until it grew.
When Jack was four, his mom died. The house was packed up and they moved. "Daddy, can we bring my tree?" he asked of the sapling that grew so out of place on the corner of the lawn. Hotch, who'd never taken much notice, shrugged and agreed.
When Jack was ten, the tree bore fruit. Spencer was there. "A peach tree," he said. "A Taoist story tells of a tree that produces a peach of immortality every three thousand years. If you eat it, you become immortal."
"Immortal means you never die, right?" asked Jack. He looked at Hotch as he said this.
They left the fruit there, but that look never faded.
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3. To be fair, your character wasn't really sure what they were ordering off the menu…
Elle, on a quest to find out just what exactly Reid doesn't know, has started ordering for him at restaurants. Hotch is a little unnerved by this. It's not that he doesn't trust Elle, it's just that Reid has the kind of face that makes him eminently easy to pick on and Hotch is technically supposed to be in control here.
Hotch decides something as he watches Elle pick a meal with a dangerous grin: it's hard being a parent when your kids are grown-ass adults and also trained federal agents.
"Don't give him that," he warns.
"What, what is that?" Gideon asks distractedly, peering at the menu. "Tripas a Moda do Porto? That's delicious. Portuguese. You'll love it."
Reid looks worried. "What is it?" he asks, looking to Hotch. Elle looks to Hotch too, her expression a clear 'don't tell him' that he decides not to cross, in the interest of unity.
It's discovered that, no, Reid does not know what tripe is. In his ignorance, he does enjoy eating it though. In the end, isn't that really what parenting is all about?
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4. Picture prompt! When One Door Closes, Another Door Opens!
Emily Prentiss has always been, throughout her entire life, two very different things. One: she's always been lonely. Her earliest memories are a closed bedroom door. Two: she's always been a little magic, or maybe that came after.
She doesn't know when it started. She doesn't know when it will end. All she knows is that, for her, doors aren't the same as they are for others. Oh, they are most of the time… but not when she's asleep, and not when she's dreaming. Those things aren't always at the same time, either.
When she was small, she'd fall asleep and dream of opening her hated bedroom door and finding excitement on the other side. Walking through to find a group of school children staring excitedly at her, their words a language she doesn't know and their world so different to hers. Or slipping through and finding herself in a stranger's nursery, a baby smiling at her from the crib. One time, she'd slipped through her door into a circus dressing room—hiding behind shawls decorated richly with spangles. Whenever she woke up, she was in her own bed, with muddy feet and crayoned hands and pockets full of sequins.
Now that she's an adult, sometimes the doors open when she's awake and at her loneliest. One time, undercover, she'd gone for a walk in the middle of the night, opening the door of his Tuscan villa only to find her childhood bedroom on the other side.
Another, she's being held by a maniac's cult and the door she opens leads to the outside.
Both times, she closes it without stepping through. Both times, it's because her job comes first.
And tonight, she's awake and dreaming of a world without Doyle on her tail, walking around her apartment wishing she could be safe. It's a waking dream and she should have known better before opening her bathroom door and stepping through with her head turned and her gaze locked behind her, paranoid, always, of the man with the shamrock tattoo.
"Emily?"
When she turns, startled to be reminded that she's different, she's in an unfamiliar apartment and Spencer is staring at her from the couch.
Fuck.
"I can explain," she says.
But he just stands, smiles widely, and murmurs, "You too, huh?" and she's reminded: magic usually comes in threes.