Author's Note: My first foray into Criminal Minds and Hotchniss. Spoilers for all of CM up through the end of S7, and eventually S8. I may borrow some episode dialogue where appropriate. One may also notice references to BSG, Doctor Who, The West Wing, Farscape, Buffy, Nora Roberts, and other works that have influenced me. The title of this piece comes from the song heard at the end of "Run," the CM S7 finale. Chapter titles are various lyrics to that song. Criminal Minds belongs to CBS, Jeff Davis, et al. Thanks, as always, to the fantastic for LadyCallie for betaing.

"Adulthood means playing the game of What Is, and becoming more in the process - changing. And that's the easiest thing in the world to forget, which means it's the most important thing to remember". - Jacob Clifton

Do you want to talk about it?

Absolutely. But not now.

First thing tomorrow.

It's a date.

It had actually become a date, of sorts. A "friend date," Emily's inner Garcia thinks. Any kind of date with Hotch is more than she's ever allowed herself to even entertain the thought of.

JJ and WIll's wedding - in all it's impromptu, magical, simple glory, planned by Rossi and his team of elves - had gone so, so late into the night that Strauss had told the team to stand down for the following day. A "one day honeymoon" for the newlyweds, she called it.

Emily suspected that was Rossi's doing also. She'd seen them dancing, the section chief and one of the architects of the BAU; granted, Prentiss had danced with Rossi too - and Morgan, Reid, Garcia, Garcia and JJ, Kevin, Will, Henry, Jack, Hotch - but she'd seen the way Rossi and Strauss were looking at each other.

So much for the fraternization regs, she mused.

The wedding had been truly beautiful, all flowers and fairylights, moonlight and starshine, a surprise for JJ. They were all such a family, the Alpha Team of the BAU. The wedding not only further cemented that idea, it was always a shining display of the teams' mutual love and affection for one another. They'd eaten, drank, laughed, and danced into the wee small hours.

And, she thinks, if her own state had been any indication of the rest of the team, they all woke up with raging hangovers.

She'd lain in bed, a hand over his eyes, her head throbbing. When her phone rang, she'd blindly reached for it, knocking a few books and an empty water glass off the dresser, even as she answered the call. She could hear Hotch's voice through the receiver as he listened to the bangs and crashes. Sergio, meanwhile, simply glared at her, turned in a circle, kneaded some blankets and went back to sleep.

"Prentiss? Is everything alright? EMILY?"

She groaned. "Please, for the love of all that is holy, stop yelling."

He laughed in her ear, a deep, gentle rumbling. "Hangover?"

"Don't you have one?" she asked incredulously. When he didn't answer, she groaned again. "I hate you. I feel like my head is going to explode."

He kept his voice soft and mild. "So, if I said to you that I overslept, and forgot that Jack has a soccer game, and I need to postpone our date, you wouldn't mind?"

She bolted up in bed at the word "date." The room spun, and her stomach revolted violently. Sergio gave her another glare, and jumped down from the bed, stalking away to find some breakfast. Then she remembered. They were supposed to talk about what she'd been brooding over. And she'd jokingly called it a date. It took all her willpower to keep herself from vomiting. The hangover and a resurgence of nerves had her sick to her stomach.

Hotch's voice sounded again in her ear, concerned. "Emily?"

She gulped. "Yes, here, sorry. Postponing is fine. I'm not really fit for company right now anyway."

He chuckled. "How about tonight? Want to grab a bite to eat, and we can talk about it? I can get Jessica to watch Jack."

"Come here for dinner." The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. She hadn't even thought them. "Uh, it'll be more relaxed," she added quickly, covering.

"All right. Can I bring anything?"

Flopping back against the pillows, Emily squeezed her eyes shut. "I can't really think about food right now, but let's say you should bring dessert. I'll take care of everything else."

"Dessert," he confirmed. "Got it. Seven o'clock?"

"Sure," she said, biting back a groan as her stomach rolled. "If I don't answer the door, assume this goddamned hangover has killed me."

He barked out a laugh, and she winced. "Should I send medics?" When he heard her mutter something about 'never drinking again,' he smiled. "I recommend aspirin, some saltines and ginger ale, and then a large, greasy breakfast and a gallon of coffee. You'll be like new."

"Hotchner family hangover cure?" she quipped.

"Well, my dad's was to just keep drinking, but it worked for me in college."

Chastened, she bit her lip. "So, I'll see you at seven?"

"It's a date," he replied gently.

They'd hung up moments later, but it had taken another twenty minutes for Emily to get herself out of bed. After stumbling to the bathroom and forcing down some aspirin, she'd rummaged through the cabinets of her subletted apartment, coming up with only a small bag of oyster crackers and a small bottle of plain seltzer. She had been considering looking for sunglasses and flip flops to drag herself down to the corner store for supplies when her doorbell had rung. It had taken everything she had not to grab her gun at the sound of an unexpected visitor. This was why she needed to leave. She saw vipers in every shadow.

Looking through the peephole, she saw a delivery boy from the diner a few blocks away. Puzzled, she opened the door. "I'm sorry, I didn't order anything."

"Prentiss, 11D?"

Dumbfounded, she'd nodded.

He'd handed her a bag and an extra large to-go cup of coffee. "Ordered online. All paid for, with tip. Have a nice day."

Still confused, Emily robotically took the food from him, and shut the door. She looked at the order slip, and saw a note at the bottom that had been added by the person who'd placed the order on the diner's website: "I thought this was easier than you making this all yourself, or going out for it. See you at 7 - Hotch."

He'd sent her breakfast. It was sweet, thoughtful, and entirely unexpected. Immediately, she'd fired off a text.

thanks for the food. you didn't have to do that.

Her phone vibrated moments later with his response, as she tucked in to her over easy eggs, hash browns, bacon and whole wheat toast. The team had had breakfast together enough times over the years that she wasn't surprised Hotch would know how she liked her eggs, and that she preferred whole wheat toast to white. Sergio rubbed against her legs, trying to lure her into sharing the bacon.

anytime. i wanted to. see you tonight.

The breakfast and coffee, coupled with a blisteringly hot shower, had been as restorative as Hotch had promised. She'd gotten out and enjoyed the day, window shopping and ending up at a Farmer's Market.

But now, as the clock approaches 7:00, she is nervous. She doesn't know if the nerves are from what she has to tell him, or just that he's coming to her house, and she's making dinner. In all the time they've known each other, they've never dined together in private. It's always somewhere public, usually with the team, or at Rossi's. She remembers a Super Bowl party at a bar, her first year on the team. Hotch and Haley were still married, Garcia was ogling Morgan, and then JJ pulled them all into an horrific case. They always go out as a group, with a group; with chaperones. Never somewhere it's only the two of them without supervision.

She rolls her eyes at herself in the mirror, and mentally scolds herself to stop being such a teenager. They are friends, he is her boss, and they need to talk. This is a simple dinner between friends and colleagues, nothing more.

Right.

She chooses a long, empire waisted sleeveless dress of soft heathered grey cotton and jersey. The day has been warm, as late Spring in DC tends to be, and her balcony doors are wide open. The dress is comfortable and not too dressy, but a step up from her usually day-off uniform of jeans and a t-shirt. She is barefoot, and tosses her hair up and away from her neck and face with a clip. She will be cooking, and thinks the embarrassment of seeing him pull a strand of her hair out of his dinner will send her over the edge.

Promptly at seven, her buzzer rings. This time, she does not reach for her gun. She takes a moment, scooping Sergio up for a quick snuggle to calm herself. After he wriggles out of her arms, she checks the peep hole, and sees him. He has a paper bag in his hand from the bakery down the street. Standing on the other side of her door, Hotch shifts his weight from foot to foot. He looks almost….nervous.

Emily swings the door open, and they stand there looking at each other. She remembers the last time he stood outside her door - stone faced, dressed in a suit. Tonight, he is casual in jeans, a dark T-shirt, and an open button down. She is reminded of how he looked when she first returned from the "dead." She wonders if she should tell him to bring back the scruff and beard. She wonders what he would do if she told him how sexy it was.

Hotch drinks in the sight of her - she looks fresh and comfortable, and he cannot help but appreciate the scooped neckline of her dress. He has never been to her new apartment - the place she has been subletting since her return. The building is large, and old, but well maintained and has decent security.

"Come in," she says cordially. He hands her the bag - he got a variety of pastries, most of them chocolate, knowing her fondness - as he steps into the apartment, and she surprises him by kissing him on the cheek. She feels reckless and more than a little impulsive. She blames it on adrenaline and nerves, and not at all on feelings and impulses she has been sitting on for years.

He looks around. The apartment has hardwood floors and what appears to be original woodwork, but an open floor plan. He sees a spacious kitchen off to one side, and a large brick fireplace across from a comfortable-looking sectional couch. She has a small, but well appointed balcony that overlooks the city.

"Thank you for having me over," he says politely.

She cannot believe she succeeds in not rolling her eyes at the formality of his statement. "Hotch," she chides. "It's a night off. Let's just - enjoy each other's company, alright?" She hands him a glass of merlot, from a bottle she'd opened to breathe earlier. Meeting his eyes, she clinks her glass with his in an informal, unspoken toast, before drinking her wine. She nearly gulps, more than sips, but her nerves feel slightly frayed and she can see the questions in his eyes; they are written all over his face.

She gestures towards the peninsula that demarcates the edge of her kitchen space. It has a quartz countertop, and is high and wide enough that it can accommodate several high-backed stools and function as a breakfast bar. She has a bowl of olives, another bowl of spicy roasted nuts set out. They both take seats, and there are a few beats of awkward, uncomfortable silence. They both nibble on the snacks, to fill time, to be doing something. It feels like the first time they met, pleasantly staring at each other, each waiting for the other to spit it out. Every second they remain in silence, the awkwardness grows. He is waiting for her to tell him whatever she brought him here to hear, and she wants to talk about anything else.

"How was soccer?" she asks, plastering a bright, interested smile on her face.

"We don't really keep score, but Jack scored four goals," Hotch says with barely concealed pride. Then his expression changes. "Unfortunately, one of them was in the other team's net, because he forgot his position on the field."

She frowns empathetically, and drinks more wine. "But he put the ball in the net, so that's a positive!"

She makes him laugh, and he is grateful for it. He knows he does not laugh enough. He is trying to. He remembers Haley telling him to show Jack that his father isn't always so serious. He thinks Emily might be able to help him, in that regard. If…

"Indeed. We celebrated with Five Guys, and a double feature of Cars and Up!"

"Holy Pixar, Batman," she replies.

"Jessica decided to come to the apartment, rather than having Jack go across town, so they finished Up!, and here I am." Jessica kept telling him not to be late for his date. He kept telling her it wasn't actually a date, even though that's exactly what he and Emily kept calling it.

"Did he and Henry have a good sleepover with Pen?" She knows what grown up, big girl sleepovers are like with their genius tech analyst. She imagines how much fun her friend must be as a host to a couple of little kids.

At the reception, Garcia mentioned taking Henry, to give the newlyweds a wedding night. Jack heard about the younger boy sleeping over at "Auntie Penny's" and wanted in on the action.

"Uh, they watched some Doctor Who this morning and had chocolate chip pancakes and bacon, which were big hits. Garcia took Henry home when Jack and I left for soccer." In truth, Hotch had to bribe Jack with the Five Guys to get him to leave Garcia's apartment in the first place. He'd been fairly well ensconced in the marathoning of the British TV show. And besides, "Auntie Penny's" place was pretty cool, Jack kept saying.

"She's good with kids, our girl," Emily remarks.

He nods in agreement, a smirk forming on his face. Garcia had put on Doctor Who to keep the boys quiet while she nursed her own hangover. "Did your breakfast help this morning?"

"Yes, and thank you, again," she says, hoping she hides her blush by drinking more wine. "You didn't have to do that."

"I had just as much champagne as you last night, and I woke up fine." He shrugs. "It was the least I could do."

She scowls, and slaps playfully at his arm. "Okay, I definitely hate you for the lack of hangover." She sighs, and he almost hears contentment in it. "The food and gigantic coffee did help, though. I had a nice day."

She worries over her lip, biting it, and Hotch sees her start to pick at her nails. Another tell. He wonders how many versions of whatever conversation she intends to have with them she has already had in her head.

The profiler in him knows to let her lead, that her nerves, whatever fears she's bringing into this will color the conversation. She may have tried to anticipate his responses, and has several scenarios in her head. Compartmentalizing has always been one of her strongest skills. He's always pictured it as boxes, filing cabinets in her mind. She takes what isn't useful, is too hurtful, too frightening, too horrifying, and files it away. Who knows how many files she's already in possession of for this scenario. He wants to be there for her, but knows she could escalate into an argument with him that will scuttle the entire thing.

The friend in him, the man, just wants to help her, to know whatever secrets have been haunting her. He watches her eyes, sees them dart around nervously, as though she cannot bring herself to look at him. Is she afraid she'll lose her nerve? he wonders.

"Emily," he says softly. "Do you want to talk about whatever it is that's bothering you?"

Her eyes snap to his, and widen. She sighs. "I do, I swear." She gestures haplessly towards her refrigerator. "I bought a bunch of food and I'd like to be able to cook and eat it before we get into...it." Her hand clutches the wine bottle tightly, and seeming to realize it, she pours herself some more to drink.

He arches a brow, but otherwise keeps his face conspicuously deadpan. "Do I need to help you move a body?" He moves his head towards the balcony, gesturing to the street. "It's possible there's a shovel in my trunk."

She lets out a loud, raucous, shocked laugh. He never jokes, or rarely does. And now he is being almost audacious. "No," she says, still laughing. "It's nothing like that."

She begins to rise from her seat, wineglass in hand, and he rests a hand gently on her arm. His touch is light, a ghost near her skin. "Emily…"

He keeps saying her name. Her first name. He usually alternates between her first and surnames. But he keeps saying "Emily," like he's trying to remind her who she is. His voice sends unexpected shivers down her spine, and she finds she wants to close her eyes and revel in it.

Instead, she meets his eyes. "Hotch, I'm fine." She sees the doubt on his face. "Yes, something's bothering me, and I'd like to speak with you about it. I will speak with you about it, I promise. Just - can we have dinner first?"

When Hotch gives her the smallest of nods, his face relaxing, she moves away from him, instantly regretting the loss of contact, however minimal it was.

The long hem of her dress brushes his skin where his pant leg has ridden up, and he hopes he hides the chill that courses through him. Everything about this evening feels heightened.

He watches her, momentarily mollified, as she practically dances around the kitchen, moving barefoot with a balletic ease as she pulls out pots and pans, ingredients, produce, meat. He chuckles into his wine.

"What?" she asks, glancing over her shoulder. His grin is infectious and she cannot help but mirror it. In spite of what she needs to speak with him about, she feels light, and easy. The dark, gaping hole in her soul, filled with bricks and lead, rocks and blood, bone and tears, a graveyard of regrets and mistakes; this feeling she has carried with her since she woke up at in the hospital in Boston - JJ and Hotch standing over her, looking both relieved, and grim - and did not lose when she gazed upon Doyle's bedraggled, lifeless corpse, is receding, if only for the moment.

It shouldn't be this easy, sitting with him as the sun sets, warm breezes drifting in from her open balcony doors as she cooks and they drink and smile at each other. He has a girlfriend, she is leaving; if she wasn't leaving, she'd still be his subordinate and nothing would change. He is too noble to cheat with her, too law-abiding to go against the fraternization rules; he respects her too much to ask her to transfer. Theteam needs you too much, he'd say, she thinks. She doesn't dare think about what it would be like if he said he needed her. He loves his job too much leave it.

Aaron Hotchner. He has been a plague on her life since the moment they met.

If he notices that her gaze lingers too long, that her eyes glance over her shoulder at him when he laughs, and meet his, and do not look away, he does not mention it. He merely sips his wine, regarding her over the rim of the glass.

"When I worked for your mother, I remember cooks, gardeners, housekeepers…"

Emily stops chopping vegetables and turns to face him, one hand on her hip, the other gesticulating with her knife. "What are you trying to say, Hotch? That I grew up a spoiled embassy brat who never had to lift a finger to meet her own needs?" She works hard to keep her tone light. She knows he is teasing her, and means no harm, but nearly forty years of mildly repressed parentally-directed anger doesn't go away after only a few months of Bureau-mandated therapy.

He knows her too well to rise to the thinly veiled bite in her voice. "I'm pleasantly surprised you can cook, is all."

She points at him with her knife, affecting her best glare, learned at the Ambassador's knee. More like across a mile-long dinner table, she muses. "The summer before my senior year at Yale, Netta taught me how to fend for myself. She figured since I was choosing the unglamorous life of a law enforcement officer over a life in DC and international politics, I'd need to be able to feed myself."

Hotch smiles, again, some more. It feels good to smile.

It's good to see him smile, she thinks.

"Little did she know law enforcement officers subsist primarily on takeout, cereal, and frozen food," he replies, pouring more wine into his class. His car is parked out front, and he really should slow down on the drinking, but the summer breeze and the sight of her already have him feeling slightly drunk. In for a penny…

She makes a low humming noise of agreement in her throat and hoists the cutting board, and her ingredients, from the far counter to the center island at which he sits. She slides her own empty wine glass over to him and he pours her another obligingly.

He remembers Netta. She's been the Prentiss Family cook for years; she's like Cordon Bleu meets Julia Child by way of Richmond, and has travelled the world with the Ambassador and her family. She used to always make sure there was fresh coffee for the security staff, and used to slip him some cookies after a particularly trying shift - which was a frequent occurrence, when one worked for Ambassador Prentiss. Haley had often joked that she suspected Netta's cookies kept him working for the Ambassador longer than he should have, given the stress of that particular assignment.

"But it relaxes me." Emily's voice breaks him away from his thoughts.

"Did you cook a lot, in Paris?" he asks, his voice mild. They have rarely spoken of her time away, her time of death and hiding, her time away from them, from him. He knows she was in Paris, primarily. He knows she played a lot of online Scrabble with JJ, which, given JJ's schedule, young son, and the time difference, speaks volumes about the women's friendship. He knows she has bad days, when she tells him - and when she doesn't. He watches her knife hesitate, ever so slightly. She sets it down, reaches for her wine glass.

Emily drinks, eyes closed, nose in the glass, breathing deep. Not in a pretentious way, he knows. She is trying to find some calm against the panic that comes with the mention of her time spent "dead." He has watched her try to put those seven months behind her, try and put the years with JTF-12, with Doyle, with what they did to each other, behind her. He thinks that sometimes she is more successful than others.

"I had a small flat near Sacré-Cœur, in Montmatre." Her voice is quiet. "18th arrondissement. It had a tiny kitchen - very European with the combo washer-dryer in it. You could barely turn around in it without smacking into something." She chuckles, but he can tell her heart isn't in it. "But yes, I cooked. I couldn't have delivery guys coming there." Her eyes look haunted, distant, as if she can see some far away spectral place he cannot.

He reaches out, takes her hand. It feels brazen, more intimate than they usually allow themselves. Her eyes meet him, and a thousand words pass between them, unspoken. She speaks six languages, and yet he knows she's been having trouble finding the words she wants to say. Her whole house search, he knows, was about more than investing in some real estate. He wonders if she even knows the full extent of it.

I missed you. I missed you too. Please talk to me. I don't know how. Be honest, even if it hurts. I will if you will.

It all passes between them, in the silence. There is a challenge in her eyes that he intends to meet. He's backed down for too long. So has she. He's grown tired of it.

He teaches Jack patience. Patience in all things. You can't always get what you want, as the song goes. He believes that to be true. Except he's been patient for six years, through a marriage, a divorce, working together, injuries, madmen, psychopaths, demons, both of them playing Icarus to Death's sun; her string of crappy dates, sort of boyfriends, men who she knew were wrong for her, but went for because she thought it was all she deserved. There is enough baggage between them to sink the Fifth Fleet. And there is Beth. Beth.

Be honest, even if it hurts.

I will if you will.