She and Hotch went to California that weekend to interview Charles Manson. Emily was bouncing in anticipation the entire flight there, much to Hotch's amusement. She'd been pouring over case files and articles on the man for weeks; she'd even reread Helter Skelter.
"You into those protein shakes now?" Hotch asked as they exited their hotel rooms at the same time and started down the hallway to head over to the prison.
"No," Emily said shortly, despite the fact that she was holding one in her hand. "I actually really hate them."
Hotch stared at her for a second. "Either you suddenly got really bad at sarcasm, or you're actually forcing yourself to drink something you can't stand. And I'm guessing it's not the sarcasm."
Emily sighed. "Yeah. Um, I'm almost through my second trimester and I'm still losing weight, which is freaking my doctor out. I should be gaining, like, at least one or two pounds per week, but I'm not – turns out this baby bump is only there because I'm malnourished. I'm pretty sure that it's because when a table leg goes through your torso and they end up removing like half of your intestines from your body, you don't absorb stuff like you should. Plus, the baby has all sorts of extra room in there cuz they had to remove like half of my organs. But my doctor seems to think I'm just not eating enough, so whatever. I'm supposed to drink these nasty shakes with all of these additional nutrients and calories and vitamins. Problem is, they make me want to vomit. Which is the opposite of what I'm supposed to be doing."
"They can't be that bad," Hotch argued as they walked through the lobby.
Emily's eyebrows shot up. "Um, don't say that until you've tried it." She tossed the bottle to him and he caught it, surprised.
"I can't try this," he said slowly, as though he was trying to come up with an explanation on the spot, "because... You need all the calories."
"Coward."
Now his eyebrows shot up. "Agent Prentiss, I seem to recall walking into a room with a suicide bomber just last week, so I beg to differ."
Yeah, that case had been a fun one. Not.
She shrugged. "I call them like I see them, Sir."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hotch twist the cap off stubbornly and tip the bottle back. About a second later, he started coughing and spluttering.
Emily laughed as he passed the shake back to her. "I told you so."
"I imagine that's how moss would taste."
"Oh my God, you're totally right. Isn't it awful? But I don't have much of a choice. They're threatening to put me back on parenteral nutrition, which is a major pain. It would pull me out of the field for sure. And the IV port freaks me out."
This clearly amused him. "It freaks you out?"
"Yeah, there's this lump and you can kind of feel it when you're moving around, and I always wanted to touch it but you're not supposed to. It's like... Do you remember when you were little and you'd lose a tooth, and you wanted to stick your tongue where it used to be but at the same time, you really didn't want to? But you also didn't have a choice? That's how it was."
"You had that when you were in the hospital after Doyle?"
"Yeah. Then that was the only way I was getting any food, so I guess it wouldn't be as bad this time since I can still eat. But I'd still rather avoid it if I can, so," she raised the shake, "Bottoms up."
She took a big gulp and then made a face. For a moment he thought she'd gag, but she managed to keep it down.
"You know," he said as they got into the SUV, "There's another way that you can gain some weight."
She looked over at him suspiciously. "How?"
"I'll just have to start taking you out more."
Emily's jaw dropped and her eyes crinkled. "Wow, Agent Hotchner. That was extremely smooth."
"Thank you, Agent Prentiss. I take it that's a yes?"
"That's definitely a yes."
They arrived and Emily felt rather unfazed – it was nothing more than your average high security prison.
The guard led them into an interview room, giving Emily's stomach a concerned glance. She tugged on her sweater – it didn't camouflage as much as she hoped it would. This seemed to make Hotch nervous.
"Relax," she told him. "Nothing is going to happen."
"You did see the photographs of Sharon Tate's body, right? That's what we're dealing with here."
"I can take care of myself."
"I know." He sighed. "Still wish we could have guns in here, though."
A minute later, the door slid open and they brought him in. He looked at them with a weird little smile on his face. He'd brought his guitar with him.
He was old – nearly 80 now, and even though she knew he was only 5'2", his size still came as somewhat of a surprise. The swastika he'd tattooed on his forehead stood out against his sallow skin, and it was the only indicator that he wasn't your average, run-of-the-mill homeless dude.
Until she looked into the eyes. They weren't cold – no, they held a weird warmth, a warmth that wanted to burn you alive. They were wide, flicking back and forth between the two agents, and somehow, they were happy eyes. Happy eyes that glistened with insanity.
Emily instinctively drew nearer to Hotch.
"You look like you coulda been one of my girls," he said, crazy eyes glued to Emily. He spoke softly, almost as if he was trying to get them to lean in closer to him.
Emily's facial expressions were a mask.
Manson leaned forward suddenly in an attempt to do what they'd been warned he always did during an interview – he tried to touch them on their noses.
He was successful, to a degree. He got Hotch and his fingertip grazed Emily's cheek – he'd have gotten her, too, but Hotch had swatted his wrist away.
"You don't touch her," Hotch said sternly in a voice that left no room for argument, fixing his classic Hotch glare on the madman.
The crazy eyes darted from Hotch to Emily and a small, crooked smile appeared on his face. "Alright, chief. She's yours, I get it."
Ignoring this, they started to ask him questions about the usual things. His childhood, when he first got to San Francisco. They talked about his music career – he sang his newest song to them while strumming his guitar. They talked about the "hidden meanings" of the songs in the White Album. When they asked why he'd done the Tate and LaBianca murders, he first repeated what he always said about how he hadn't done it, and then he went on about "helter skelter" and "death to piggies" for a good fifteen minutes, putting particular emphasis on the fact that the police had gotten it all wrong, and their interpretation didn't make any sense. When asked for his interpretation, Manson quickly changed the subject.
He did have a weird presence, though. Emily thought he was absolutely bat-shit crazy, but she was still sort of drawn to him. She could definitely see how he was dangerous.
Hotch threw her an apologetic glance when Manson started talking about his sex life.
When Hotch managed to steer the conversation back to the murders, Manson just kept repeating, "I didn't kill nobody" in fifty different ways.
Seeing that they wouldn't be getting much else out of him, they decided to call it a day.
They didn't talk until they were out in the parking lot.
"What'd you think?" Hotch asked.
"Deranged little Rumpelstiltskin."
He laughed – a genuine, hearty laugh with a smile and everything. Emily's heart leapt and then she started laughing, too.
"We shouldn't laugh about this," she breathed.
"I know," he said, sobering up. "Sorry."
They got into the SUV and Emily immediately started giggling again.
"Prentiss –"
" – I'm so sorry, Hotch, I don't even know why I'm laughing," she started to explain, but then Hotch started chuckling again, too.
"Let's get Chinese," Hotch wheezed when they finally stopped laughing long enough to talk, ribs aching. Emily eagerly agreed, and they went back to the hotel.
"Do you want to watch a movie?" she asked, surprisingly not feeling shy about asking him to come over.
"Sure," he agreed readily. "I'd like to shower first, though – I always feel dirty coming out of a prison."
"Me, too. Come over when you're done. Don't forget to wash your nose," she joked as they went into their separate rooms. Emily opened the door that joined her room to his, and she dragged her go-bag into the bathroom and took a long, hot shower.
When Hotch finished, he went into Emily's hotel room and took a seat on the bed with the food. He grabbed the remote and started flipping through channels, looking for a movie.
Emily's phone started ringing a few minutes later.
"Em?" he called through the bathroom door. "Your phone –"
"Can you get it? I'll be out in two minutes!"
He dug it out of her purse and answered it.
"Hey, Mom, are you okay? You were supposed to text me when you got done with that interview, and it's getting late –"
"Actually, Declan, this is Agent Hotchner."
The boy paused. "Where's Emily? Is she okay?"
"Yeah, she's fine. She's in the shower."
"Oh," Declan answered, a little taken aback. Why was her boss answering her phone while she was in the shower? "Um, could you ask her to call me when she's done?"
"Yeah, of course. Oh, actually, Declan, she's done now. Here she is."
Emily padded over to the bed and took the phone. "Hi, hon. What's up? … Oh, I'm sorry, I totally forgot…. I didn't mean to worry you… I know. Oh, Dec, I don't even know how to describe him. Pure crazy."
Hotch stopped listening, distracted momentarily by the view of Emily's soft curves under her loose pajama t-shirt, the scent of her shampoo wafting towards him as she sunk down on the bed next to him.
"Wha – Declan, I don't really think that's any of your business," Emily was saying, flustered. She glanced over at Hotch as though hoping he hadn't heard.
He hadn't, but he was definitely listening now.
Emily, realizing this, switched to French mid-sentence. He scowled and she stuck her tongue out at him.
"Bien, impertinente. Je te parlerai demain. Je t'aime." She hung up and turned to him. "Dec says good night."
"What was he asking about?"
She raised her eyebrows and smiled, biting her lip. "You."
Hotch's eyebrows shot up, too. "What'd you tell him?"
"Don't worry, sir. I don't kiss and tell."
"Sir?" he teased.
"Hotch," she corrected herself.
"Aaron," he offered.
She looked up at him, head tilted to the side, considering. "Aaron, then," she conceded.
His eyes smiled and one of his rare dimples appeared.
"You know, this is probably the weirdest date I've ever been on," she said.
"Oh?"
"Interviewing a notorious killer followed by Chinese food and a movie? I mean, don't get me wrong, that's some romantic shit right there, but…"
Hotch laughed. "Sorry, I guess my dating skills are a little rusty."
"So… are we dating, then?" she asked hesitantly.
"I think so. Do you?"
"Yeah, I do."
He pulled her against his side and kissed the top of her head. She tilted her chin up and their lips met in a long, gentle kiss. She huddled under his arm, her head resting in the crook of his neck. She could hear his heartbeat and it was putting her to sleep. She was almost out when Bean kicked her hard in the side.
"Oh," she breathed, startled.
"That was a good one," Hotch commented, brow knitted together. "You okay?"
"Mhm. Little one's been moving like crazy lately. I'm still getting used to it."
"Can I?" he asked, looking at the bump. Even through her t-shirt he could see her skin ripple with each of the little nudges.
"Yeah."
He laid his hand over where the kicks were occurring, and Emily responded by relaxing further into his touch. It felt so right. She slid her hand over his, holding it in place.
A few minutes later, Hotch felt her head drop down onto his shoulder and her breathing evened out. Her hand still held his, and the baby's now-gentle kicking continued for a few more minutes.
Their movie ended and he shut the TV off and almost went back to his own room – but in the end, he opted to stay right where he was. He shifted Emily so they were lying down and placed his hand gently on her stomach again. The last time he had felt these movements of a tiny life, he'd been holding his own pregnant wife like this, filled with the awe and anxiety of a soon-to-be-dad. For a moment he allowed himself to imagine that this baby was his – but then he realized he was majorly out of his place thinking like that. But he kept his hand right where it was.
His last thoughts before he, too, succumbed to sleep were that maybe, just maybe, Emily and her baby could someday be his, too.
