Chapter Four: 1998
.
.
January
Hotch spends his first Monday as Gideon's Senior Agent in the bullpen.
"You know they gave you an office, right?" Morgan says, handing him a coffee with a grin that says I got you this on purpose when Hotch knows he probably only did it on muscle memory because neither of them are used to him being behind the wall yet. "It has a desk and everything. Fancy bookshelves. Nice carpeting. No Anderson."
"Hey!" protests Anderson, and they both ignore him.
"It still smells like Rossi," Hotch grumbles, scowling at what used to be his desk and now contains a really sheepish looking Anderson. "I'm worried he has cameras in the walls."
"That's… a distinct possibility," Morgan says, and they both turn as one to stare suspiciously at the office door.
Eventually, he puts some books on the shelves. Diploma on the wall. They put his name on the door. A photo of Emily holding Marceline, both in light summer dresses and grinning past the camera.
He doesn't sit in the bullpen again.
.
February
"I don't do Valentine's Day," Emily had said, their first February together, and Aaron had apparently taken that as a challenge.
Last year he'd tied bows to both Marceline and Sergio, with what he assured Emily were lovely tickets to a play Rossi had recommended. Assured her, because Marcie had managed to partially consume hers, and they still have no idea where Sergio had hidden the other.
This year, he's behaving.
So far.
Until she drags herself home from work after a gruelling counterterrorism case, and finds the house empty. Suspiciously empty.
Empty except for a box on their bed. She approaches it carefully, one hand on her hip, considering using her gun to open the fucking thing because it's probably going to be sappy, it's certainly going to be romantic, and the whole thing is fucking ridicu—
It's a dress. It's black and glitters slightly as it pools between her fingers. When she holds it up, it's long, the material clingy, and completely demure in a way that she knows will have his eyes on her all night.
"Oh, Aaron," she whispers, because she goddamn loves it and she can't tell him that because she can't let him win this one, damnit.
There's a hand on her hip, a gentle pressure, and she didn't even hear him coming and he's the only one who can still sneak up on her, the only one she'll let. "I hope you like it," he rumbles into her ear, and just like that her breathing is fast and she's leaning back against him. Lips against the shell of her ear, his palms settling around her waist, and he knows exactly where to nip to make her melt.
"Jesus, Aaron," she says, eyes closed and body quivering, and he chuckles. "Do you want me in or out of the dress?"
"Both," he murmurs into her ear, pressing against her, and he's hard and she's ready.
They make it to the play, a year late and twenty minutes, but she's pretty sure he doesn't hear a word because he's gazing at her all the night with soft, confusing eyes, and she doesn't know what he's doing or how she feels about it, but she does know that she's flushed and awkward and completely in love with this man.
"Home?" she asks after, and he smiles, wrapping an arm around her waist. Tugging her against him.
"Not yet."
Dinner.
He's outdone himself. "This is revoltingly romantic," she scolds him, her mouth turned up in a stupid sappy smile that betrays her heart and her skin hot and on far too tight. "You disgust me."
There's music playing. His eyebrows raise, he takes on his 'Hotch' expression, and he tilts his head towards the open floor where couples are already dancing.
"No," she says, and folds her arms. "No hope, Aaron."
But, of course, she does.
It's slow, even, and he doesn't miss a step. He guides her easily through the throngs of others and she feels safe, feels treasured, feels like she's come home.
"I love you," she says into his chest, his heart against her cheek.
"I know," he says, tilting her mouth up to his. The kiss is long, leisurely, and almost obscene for such a public place. She's thankful for his arms around her. "I love you too."
She's also thankful for twenty-year-old Emily and her recklessness about this man.
Always thankful.
.
March
The wheel on Marcie's stroller gets jammed one day while he's walking her through the supermarket on an endless quest for 'you know, that nice detergent we had that time', and he really doesn't know and Marcie isn't much help.
He's crouched next to it, examining it solemnly, and Marcie helps him by giggling at the sight of her daddy on the ground by the canned soup, and then dumps her juice on his head.
"Thank you," he tells her tiredly, and she beams at him in return, cackling some more. Her mother's goddamn daughter after all. "I'm not letting you out of the house once you turn thirteen," he scolds, suddenly vividly picturing Emily at twenty and going cold imagining her even younger. He amends his statement as he tries to wrestle some kind of wipe out of the bag attached to the stupid stroller, almost tipping the whole thing over, "Actually, eight. House lockdown at eight."
There's juice in his eyes and his daughter just keeps snickering at him, like she's fully aware that right now and probably for the next ten years he's the absolute bee's knees, but as soon she hits puberty there's going to be no listening to dear old Dad.
Maybe it's not too late to give her to Rossi. Late retirement present. Here you go, Dave. If she's like me, she'll be stupid. If she's like her mother, you'll wish she was stupid.
"Hello, Aaron," says a voice he's never quite forgotten from behind him, and he turns to find Haley with her eyes locked on Marcie and her bottom lip pinched from where she's chewing on it.
"Haley," he says dumbly, and Marcie throws her cup. "Oh shi-fuck!"
Retrieving the cup, he turns to find Haley with the queerest expression he's ever seen on her face and the packet of wet wipes he was struggling to find in her hands. She takes one out, hands it to him, and smiles shakily. Her eyes keep flickering to Marcie, who hides her face behind her hands and pretends she's not there.
"There's a lock," Haley says suddenly, her voice overloud, and kneels to show him how to unhook it. "It's hidden. My… I babysit, sometimes, they have one just like it. Hello, there. Who are you then? Oh gosh, you've got your daddy's hair…"
Her eyes are shiny-bright, her face is flushed, and he knows she's talking to hide how awkward this is. Wiping the sticky juice from his cheek and ear, he swallows twice and tries to find his voice.
"This is Marceline," he says finally, because it's always easy to talk about his child, always, and then before Haley can say anything, "You'll need to be in front of her if you want her to listen to you. She's… her hearing isn't…" Another swallow. For a moment, sickly, he feels almost embarrassed. Guilty of that embarrassment. Furious at himself for it.
"Oh." Haley shuffles around front and touches Marcie's hand, gently. Dark eyes peek out from behind spread fingers. "Hello, Marceline. It's nice to meet you. Do you wave?" She waves and something in Hotch's chest twinges, whispers look what could have been, if you hadn't broken her heart. You don't even regret it, do you?
Marcie shakes her head and then proves herself a liar by waving quickly before re-hiding her face.
Haley straightens. "Are you with, um… Emily?" she asks, and it's not really her place to ask, he wouldn't ask her a similar question, but he doesn't really begrudge her. Doesn't really begrudge her the small jibe at pretending to forget Emily's name either, even though he knows the name is very likely seared into her memory; he'd ensured that.
"Yes," he says, and tucks the sticky wipe into his pocket. "I am. I'm sorry, we really have to go. Marcie's going to get cranky soon, she doesn't focus well in loud places…"
"I understand," Haley says, but by the look on her face, she doesn't really. He doesn't blame her. "It was good seeing you, Aaron."
That's a lie.
He lets her have it. Returns it, even.
"Good seeing you too," he says, a lie, and walks out of her life again.
.
April
Her work doesn't take her up to the sixth floor very often, but it does bring a member of the BAU down to her.
"Um, hello?" says a soft, nervous voice one morning, and Emily looks up to find a blonde woman with her hair pulled back tightly in a ponytail designed to make her look severe peering down at her. Blue eyes and make-up to add years where other people would mask them, Emily's heart goes out to her. "I was looking for an Agent Prentiss?"
"You found her," Emily says, and smiles warmly. Over the next few hours assisting 'please, call me JJ', she discovers that under the newness the woman wears uncomfortably, there's a kind, quick-witted personality waiting to be given the chance to show itself.
Emily does what she does best, and drags her kicking and screaming out of her shell.
Three weeks later, she's gotten her out to a club, Morgan tagging along with their new tech they introduce as Penelope, and there's no sign of the terrified mouse anymore.
"She'd make a great agent," Morgan shouts over the music, watching Penelope dance around the laughing JJ. "After a bit of training. But heck, I don't know how we managed without her media contacts. Woman is a genius with the press."
Aaron, later that night, is quieter with his praise but Emily knows to read between the lines.
"She's good at her job," he comments quietly in his I'm at work and professional tone that's slowly creeping into his personal life too, and she hugs his shoulders and thinks that, in Aaron-speak, that's a glowing recommendation.
.
May
Increasingly, it's Hotch beating Emily home and spending the night alternating between paperwork and heating mushed peas for Marcie and attempting to somehow convince her of their nutritional value, while not being completely sure of it himself.
The TV is muted, the better for him to talk to her without the distraction of the background noise, but she startles anyway at the rolling boom of an oncoming storm overhead, loud enough to rattle the windows.
She jumps and the peas flip into his lap. "Damn," he mutters, looking down and pulling a face. Another clap from outside. Maybe he should ring Emily and ask her to be care…
Marcie whimpers. He looks at her, and her eyes are wide and shocked, mouth opened.
"Are you scared of storms?" he asks, and tries to remember if this is a problem they've faced in the past. Marcie's lip quivers.
Another boom. This one is directly above them and brings with it enough rain to fill the Potomac.
Marcie screams with it and keeps on screaming.
Three hours later, Emily is on her way home and he's been pacing the hall with their still screeching daughter red-faced and shaking since the storm first blew in. His phone beeps and he shuffles her to one arm to check the grainy green screen for the blocky text. ROAD BLOCKED. HOME LATE. JUST SING TO HER.
"Your daddy puts the fear of god into serial killers," he tells Marcie, and she hiccups and chokes on her sobs, face dry and eyes scrunched up. Still miserable. Still shaking. He knocks her arm away as she flings it up to scratch at her ears, rubbing her small palm between his fingers to try to distract her from the noise outside. "And now here I am. Singing. Come on, love. Look at my mouth."
She does, blinking. Her eyes are red, gritty, and he can tell she's exhausted, wired, terrified still. Tapping his mouth, he carefully and tunelessly forms the words. He can't sing. He's terrible. But… she quietens. "And though I can't guarantee there's nothing scary hiding under your bed, I'm gonna stand guard…"
That night, Emily gets home and finds them both curled up in the armchair, Hotch asleep with his head tilted back and Marcie asleep with her ear pressed to his chest and thumb in her mouth, lulled to sleep by the sound of his heart.
He's over-protective, hot-headed, and sometimes stupid, but she loves him sorely in that moment. Even if he can't always protect them from what they're scared of.
He might count this as a failure, but she's very aware it's nothing of the sort.
.
June
Emily gets held at gunpoint. It's not a quick held at gunpoint either. It's long enough that the news of it is filtered into the rest of the Bureau, which isn't long at all.
Agents Prentiss and Calpone are hostages. Proceed with caution. Their conditions are unknown.
She knows the terminology. Hostages. Caution. 'Condition'. All words that are really just, in this situation, synonyms for alive.
For now.
There's a gun at her head, her partner isn't moving, and all she can think about is never going home. Never seeing Marcie sing or paint or go to school or get in a fight or fall in and out of love.
And Aaron is so fucking insecure half the time, she probably should have told him at some point that he's an amazing dad, he'll be an amazing dad with or without her, and this is all frighteningly close to admitting that there's a bullet with her name on it and a man with his finger on the trigger.
But that's not right.
"You're going to die here, bitch," says the man, and that's not true at all.
The bullet that represents her life isn't in his gun. It's not at the mercy of his hairline trigger. It's not in the skill of the hostage negotiator they have who's probably very good, but not the best, because she knows Rossi is retired and they've probably got Hotch on lockdown to stop him from walking in here.
No I'm not, she thinks, because there's only one bullet with her name and her life etched onto it, and it's around her neck, warm from her skin and her continued existence, and she needs to survive to thank Aaron for ensuring that.
She does.
She takes the man down, his partner too, and there's a second where they very nearly get the upper hand, but then the room is filled with black and there's SWAT and FBI surrounding her. One of them is Morgan, and his face is grim. He's young, reckless, reactionary; she sees Hotch in him then, because he sees the bruise on her face and gives the man who did it a matching one.
"I can protect myself," she says to him after, and remembers a similar scene, a similar man, but a very different girl. Girl, not woman.
He grins, shakily, and leads her from there without letting her lean on him, despite wanting her to. Chauvinist. "I know," he says, and she almost laughs out loud. "But I wanted him alive, Prentiss."
And there's the difference. The men might be similar.
She's not. And she has a scar across her belly and a bullet around her neck to prove it.
She walks out of there on her own two feet, not because she's not shaky—she is, and concussed as fuck to boot—but because she knows that outside that warehouse there's a police line and a FBI command station and behind them both, she knows there's a man who needs to see her living.
His eyes are wild and his hands wilder. The bullet is warm in her hand, sticky with the blood from her fingers, and it's the first time she's taken it off since he gave it to her.
"Emily, god," he gasps, almost a moan, and drags her into his arms and she can feel him shaking, falling apart. "I couldn't… god."
She presses the bullet into his hand. He stares at it, tilts it, letting the light catch the metal and the blood and the coppery sheen.
"I didn't lose it," she says, and doesn't let go.
.
July
Nothing happens in July, and it's a relief.
Well, small things happen. Small things, inconsequential things.
Emily sets the oven on fire accidentally because she forgot there was a chicken roasting in there.
Hotch goes on two cases and solves both, but then they have a third they fail. People die, people he could have saved had he made a different call. He comes home drunk and sleeps on the couch and they both pretend he's fine, until he actually is and they can stop pretending. Until next time.
Marcie finally masters the block toy, and discovers a hitherto unknown love of babbling along with the radio when Emily turns it up high enough that she can pick out the audible vocals. Hotch thinks it's adorable, because he's hopeless when it comes to knowing his child's flaws, and Emily just privately notes that Marcie is probably going to be as good at singing as her parents are. Which is to say, not.
It's a small month, but that doesn't make it any less.
And time passes.
.
August
He misses a call from Sean in August. Sean, his brother, but not his family. Not for a long time.
He tells himself this, but still he calls him back. Because he's always, always, been responsible for cleaning up his brother's messes, and he can't bring himself to walk away now.
It's drugs. Drugs and money and endless broken promises, small promises cascading into big promises cascading into the knowledge that he can't bring this man into his daughter's life, into Emily's life, and so when he does help his brother, he does it with money transferred from his own account and a blocked phone number.
He also does it with cruelty, and a firm don't contact me again until you've sorted yourself out, Sean.
Sean snaps and snarls and says, you're not my father, Aaron, so don't pretend to be and his pupils are blown and his arms are covered.
Hotch isn't their father, he'll never be their father, and so he walks away.
For now.
.
September
Marcie talks late, but she does talk.
Her first word, not surprisingly, is Dad.
Her second, more surprisingly and to Emily's eternal disgruntlement, is boo.
Unfortunately, that's the one that sticks.
"I blame you," she grumbles on the third morning she goes to wake their daughter up and is greeted by two wide, very-awake brown eyes and a shouted boo! "She clearly inherited your incessant need to frighten people."
Aaron peers at her from over his coffee mug, and there's butter on his mouth from his toast. "I don't frighten people," he protests, flicking his tongue over that butter, and she could list a thousand reasons why that's not true, but she doesn't. Everything from his suits to his glares are designed to intimidate those he wants intimidated, and she knows the new recruits murmur behind their hands about the hard case Hotch.
It's a change from Hotshot, but not entirely unwelcome.
And if maybe she gets him to use his Hotch voice occasionally in the bedroom… well, she's only human, after all.
.
October
In October, Elizabeth is ill. It's a frightening few weeks of Emily trying not to look worried and Hotch trying not to scold her too much for the damage she's doing to her fingernails, and it's also a frightening few weeks of Hotch wondering just how much guilt his girlfriend is going to carry if this goes terribly, terribly wrong.
But it doesn't. Elizabeth gets better.
And, in a show of both maturity and being very aware of what was almost lost, Emily elects that perhaps they should spend Sundays having dinner with her mother.
The first one is awkward. Elizabeth is still pale, tires quickly, and Hotch is silent watching Emily fuss like she's the mother. Marcie falls asleep in her high chair and they end up staying the night.
The second is easier.
The third and Hotch is almost beginning to wonder if this is what family has supposed to be all along.
He's walking Marcie across the grass outside, it's barely sunset, and the air is brisk but not quite uncomfortable. Marcie is giggling, her fingers gripping his tightly, unsteady on her legs but delighting in the firm support of his arms as she throws herself into walking anyway.
He knows she's there before she speaks. But, she still manages to surprise him.
"Do you intend upon marrying my daughter, Aaron?" Elizabeth says suddenly, and reaches a hand down to take Marcie's spare arm. They hold her up together, steadied between them, and the sun dips lower. They'll have to take her inside soon.
Hotch thinks.
Then he realizes he doesn't really need to think at all.
"Yes," he says bluntly, and sees her smile on the profile of her face. "When she's ready."
Because she's not ready yet, he knows this and so does Elizabeth. She's twenty-four, just starting out, and there's a lot more he knows she wants to do that he doesn't want to hold her back from.
When she's found herself, he'll be waiting.
Elizabeth stoops to scoop up Marcia, wincing as her knees pop. She looks, abruptly, at a section of the grass, the unadorned lawn, and with a lurch of his heart he recognises the perimeter of the alarm, the slight swell of the grounds. Remembers a girl on that grass, a smoke between her lips, the taste of chap-stick.
"You've grown up," Elizabeth says, and she's still looking at that lawn. Turning, he studies the house; notes Emily's bedroom to the right wing, and more notably and—he feels like a fool when he realizes—Elizabeth's directly behind them on the second floor. "I didn't know if you would. When Emily told me what had happened, about this little lass… I didn't know if you could help her. I fully intended upon stepping in if you couldn't."
"But I did." He voice is tight, strained. She knew all along.
A slow nod is his answer, and Marcie wraps her arms around her Grandma's neck, whispering something softly into the fragile skin of her throat. "You did. And you'll continue to do so, I'm sure of it."
He's twenty-seven at that moment, and not a boy anymore. Nor ever again.
"What are you thinking about?" Emily asks him, before they sleep. "You look all pensive."
He thinks carefully before he answers. When he does, she raises an eyebrow at him and doesn't answer, and that's fine because he didn't need one anyway.
"A broken mug," he says, and laughs.
.
November
Aaron turns twenty-eight, and promises he'll be home that night to celebrate, despite his nose wrinkling unhappily at the reminder of the passing years. She knows he's probably not that worried about it, but teases him anyway by buying him a slate-grey tie and laughing herself sick at the look of horror on his face when he opens it.
Then he leaves for work. And he isn't home that night and the roast she bought is forgotten in their freezer, because that's the day they fly to Boston.
She sees it on the news before he has a chance to call her and tell her not to panic, and for thirty agonising seconds, she can't breathe around the terror and the horror and the sheer impossibility of the headline.
…FBI task force headed by Quantico's Behavioural Analysis Unit…
…It's unknown if anyone was inside at the time of the blast, but units were on the scene…
…Emergency services are responding but urge everyone to please avoid the area…
The bullet around her neck is heavy, and she should have given him one, why didn't she? Distantly, Marcie is screaming, screaming, screaming, but Emily can't hear her over the sound of Taps playing on loop. How will they do it? she thinks, and looks at her phone, the silent phone, and Marcie is standing in her playpen, face red and snot on her lip, still screaming, or will they knock? Uniformed units?
We're sorry Ma'am, she imagines them saying, in that long, frozen, horrible moment, he was a hero, a hero, did you know he was a hero? Ma'am ma'am ma'am. Just like he used to call her.
Her phone rings. The sound startles her and she shrieks, just a small noise, and it scares Marcie even more. She's bawling, sobbing, going to make herself sick from hysteria, and Emily ignores the phone in favour of walking to her daughter.
"No, no," Marcie sobs, shaking her head, dark hair sticking to the grimy trails of tears on her cheeks. "Want Daddy."
Oh.
The phone rings. And rings and rings, and she finally answers it.
It's him.
He's alive.
.
December
This is the December of endless memorials, funerals. Four FBI agents and a civilian lost.
Gideon lasts three weeks before Boston finally destroys him. His breakdown becomes the stuff of legends within the new recruits, and their halls are filled with new recruits because four of them have died and another six quit at the reminder of their own mortality. Gideon gone too.
Among the senior agents, none of them mention it. They all know that it could be any of them, one day it could be, one day it probably will be.
Hotch just thinks it's cruel that a career like Gideon's ended like this.
Emily accompanies him to every funeral and flinches every time they say the word hero and he knows she's picturing his death, his funeral, his coffin borne by six. He knows she is, because he's doing the same for her, despite the scarcity of her fieldwork and her competence with a weapon.
It doesn't feel right to celebrate Christmas that year, not when even the Bureau doesn't bother with a cursory attempt at decoration, and the only new decor in the bullpen is the four new pictures framed on the wall. It feels odd. Like Christmas is out of place, like death is a heartbeat away, and the New Years can't possibly be just around the corner. There has to be more to 1998 than this.
But there's not.
It just ends.