Chapter Eight

Emily was saved from any interrogation from JJ by the arrival of Penelope and Morgan. Her arm was laced delicately through his, and he held her hand, as they walked in. Morgan wore a navy blue suit, with a black open-necked shirt beneath, and looked more dashingly gorgeous than Emily had seen him thus far. Penelope, in true Penelope fashion, wore a gown of her signature bright pink. Her hair was piled in curls atop her head, and she was wearing a pair of cat-eye shaped spectacles. They were laughing, heartily together, as they approached the table, as usual looking like they were in a world of their own and, not for the first time, Emily wondered at the true nature of their relationship. As they crossed the dance floor, several heads turned, and even from the door, Penelope's laughter reached their table.

"What do you think infuriates them more? Interracial couple or a fat woman who isn't ashamed of it?" Penelope put to the group, with a grin.

"Probably a little bit of both, baby girl," He grinned as he handed her a champagne flute of chardonnay, and they clinked their glasses together, conspiratorially, "It sure is fun to make the bigot's mad, huh?"

"Well played," JJ smirked at them, holding her glass out so they could each clink it. Spencer didn't look as though he were fully in on the joke, but he laughed along, nonetheless. They all glanced at Emily for her reaction, but she wasn't fully paying attention.

"Earth to Prentiss?" Penelope said.

"Princess?" Morgan nudged her gently with his elbow and her eyes snapped to his, a grin immediately filling her face, as she shook her head. Her curls shook.

"Sorry, sorry," She apologised, waving her hand as though dismissing her thoughts, "I was away in my own world, I'm sorry. What were you talking about?"

"The likelihood of these old white men being either racist or fat-phobic," Penelope filled her in with an assertive nod and a mockingly serious expression on her face. Emily raised an eyebrow, now very much in on the dark humour.

"Oh, trust me, as someone who grew up around them," She put to the group, "I can tell you most of them are definitely both."

"Charming," JJ quipped, sarcastically, glancing around the crowd. They all lifted their glasses to their lips, Spencer a moment later than the rest of them. Emily drained her glass; her second one of the evening, barely half an hour after their arrival at the party. "Whoa, slow down, buttercup." JJ said, as she watched Emily reach for her third glass. She raised a tawny eyebrow, but Emily just gave her a little shrug.

"You wanted me here," She pointed out, "and I told you I couldn't get through this party sober."

It was at that moment that Emily felt a hand on her shoulder, and she spun around to a vaguely familiar, but ageing face that she recognised, but couldn't for the life of her place. Clearly, this was somebody who remembered her much better than she remembered them. How embarrassing.

"Young Miss Prentiss," The old man with sparkling blue eyes leaned in, kissing her on the cheek. Emily politely returned the gesture as she mentally flipped through her Rolodex of contacts, raking her memory of her mother's events for this man's face, until she happened upon a name.

"Ambassador Crain!" She settled a familiar smile onto her face as she stepped back. JJ and Morgan shared a look, Morgan raising an eyebrow, impressive. JJ mimicked his expression, half-impressed, half-disturbed by how well Emily fit into this environment.

"It's been such a long time, Miss Prentiss," And with that, Emily found herself swept, as she had expected, back into her mother's world of politics and parties. She tried to introduce the team, but to Ambassador Crain, it was as though they weren't even there. He gave them a polite smile, then turned his eyes back on Emily and acted as though she hadn't even introduced them. With a firm hand on Emily's lower back. he led her away into the crowd. She cast an apologetic glance back at the team which she tried to tinge with just the right amount of ironic I told you so's.

"We've lost one," She heard Penelope quip, as she was swallowed into the belly of the beast.

The next hour of Emily's life made her sick with deja vu. Behaviour is difficult to learn, but impossible to forget, even if said behaviour hasn't been employed in a long time. And so it was that Emily, who had earlier in the evening slipped into the skin of her former self, was also able to slide back into her old personality, as easily. She had learned from the best; Elizabeth hadn't gotten to where she was without being an expert schmoozer. Early on, Emily had learned it was impossible to get through one of her parties without doing the same. Indeed, it was impossible to survive in her mother's world at all, were one not equipped with the ability to bullshit ones way through an entire conversation with somebody one despised.

At some point between a former Secretary of State and the French ambassador, Emily thought she was going to speak to everyone at the party before she saw her actual mother.

"Et comment vont les enfants?" She was politely asking the French ambassador, when she felt him approach. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and when his palm pressed against the small of her back, heat spread across the bare skin he found there.

"Pardon, please allow me to borrow Mademoiselle Prentiss." His french accent was, admittedly, better than she had expected it to be, and Emily allowed Aaron to steer her away from the crowd that had accrued around her conversation.

"I hope I wasn't overstepping," He said, as he steered her to a table and plucked two glasses from a waiter's tray, one for each of them. "But I've seen that expression on your face in the field; I think I know what you look like when you need saving, by now."

"Yes," Emily set down her clutch and took the glass from him, her eyes lowered to its clear rim, as she took a sip. She hadn't been prepared for him. All evening, she'd been trying to keep him in her peripheral, tried to keep an eye on him. Trust him to take her off guard the moment she let down her guard.

"So, French, too?" He asked, raising an eyebrow, impressed. He was, of course, referring to having seen her speak fluent Arabic. Emily had been proud of that, and hadn't hid it very well; that first day, her first case, she looked back and it made her cringe to remember how elated she had been to appear useful, to prove herself, like she was still a student at the academy, and not a qualified and experienced agent.

"Si," She replied, "E italiano." And Italian. "Nemnogo russkiy." A little Russian. "Kai elliniká." And Greek.

She couldn't help the smile that turned the corner of her mouth at Hotch's expression; he was equal parts impressed and confused. "I speak a few languages," She said, more gently, "It comes with the territory." She gestured, vaguely, at the room in general. "It wasn't really a choice, with my mother's job." Once again, he wasn't asking, but she was talking, anyway. "Each time we moved to another country, it was sink or swim. Learn or lose." She shrugged. He was looking at her with a curious expression, now. "What?"

A small shake of his head. "Nothing, no," He shook his head more vigorously, the straight line of his lips giving her a rare smile that looked out of place on his stern face now, "Every time you open your mouth, I feel like I know you a little better."

Not for the first time that evening, Emily was grateful for the glass in her hand. It gave her something to do while she pondered his words and cursed him for throwing her off, again. It was as though he were two people; the man she met that first night in the bar, who every now and then made an appearance when he smiled or when he made a joking quip, and her stern, stoic boss who kept her at arms length.

"I should learn to keep my mouth shut, then, huh?" She half-joked, half-laughed, awkwardly.

Hotch hummed, an unrevealing, non-committal noise that she didn't really know how to interpret. He lifted his glass to his lips, his eyes on her. Not for the first time, Emily felt a crackle between them. She had ignored it since that first night, because not only did she not need to be the girl who screwed the boss, but she didn't even particularly like the Aaron Hotchner she knew from the office. Where the charming, humorous, intuitive man from that first night at the bar had gone, she didn't know. Never had she met someone who slid so easily from one personality, to another. Then she remembered what she was wearing, where she was, who she was interacting with, and, not for the first time, realised she and Hotch may be more alike than she would be willing, or happy, to admit.

"Incoming." He muttered, under his breath, behind his glass. Emily's neck snapped to attention and she turned. Elizabeth's smile was tight, her eyes searching as they moved from Emily's, to Aaron, and back.

"Mother," Emily pasted a smile on her face, placing a hand on her mother's shoulder as she leaned in to press her cheek to her mother's.

"Lipstick, Emily," Elizabeth didn't snap, but Emily recoiled nonetheless. Her tone, though Aaron seemed not to notice anything amiss, was one that Emily knew well from childhood. One she had grown up with. It was just enough of a reprimand to fill Emily with that familiar sense of childhood shame and fear. But she set back her shoulders, and the smile remained on her face; Elizabeth wasn't going to get the satisfaction of getting to her in front of Aaron.

"Agent Hotchner," Elizabeth's smile, when she turned it onto Aaron, was much more genuine and, while Elizabeth's eyes were elsewhere, Emily took the opportunity to roll her own back into her head, as she sipped her champagne. "Thank you for wrangling my daughter; I've been trying to pin her down all night."

"I've been here," Emily quipped, sarcastically, gesturing vaguely to the room.

"I think your associates have been keeping her. I think a lot of them are excited to see her, after such a long time." Emily cast him a questioning glance; she hadn't spoken to him about any of this, about how long it had been. Elizabeth, though, was nodding, and she realised that she had already been a topic of conversation between the two.

"Ah," She said, "That didn't take long."

"Emily?" Elizabeth prompted her, an innocent expression on her face that didn't fool her daughter for a moment.

"I saw you talking to Agent Hotchner earlier," Emily clarified, "I thought you were catching up, reminiscing about when he worked for you. I thought you'd at least wait until you saw me to start digging for information about my job."

"Emily, sweetheart," Elizabeth was smiling, but there was nothing kind about it, "I don't need to dig to learn about you. You know that."

Unfortunately, she was right. Even at almost thirty years old, Emily was still under her mother's radar. Elizabeth was too powerful. Emily could kid herself all she wanted, but she would never really get away from her. In the end, she supposed that was why she had decided to come to the party. If she came to Elizabeth, Elizabeth didn't have to go looking for dirt on her.

"Well, I hope Agent Hotchner was complimentary about my work." She turned her eyes on Hotch, who, unlike Elizabeth, met her own with kindness.

"Of course," He nodded at her, and she knew he meant it. Perhaps, like JJ, he knew what it was to have difficult parents. "I was telling your mother how much you've impressed me since starting at the BAU."

Emily glanced from him, to Elizabeth, who was looking slightly bored, if anything, and she knew Hotch was telling the truth. It made her smile, as a faint blush crept into her cheeks. She was slightly embarrassed, but also pleased.

"And what about you?" Elizabeth piped up, "Are you enjoying your new role?"

"I am," Emily responded, enthusiastically. She was almost glad this was the topic of conversation; her work she could talk about for hours. As soon as Elizabeth strayed into anything more personal than that, Emily would check right out of the conversation, "It's different. It's definitely keeping me on my toes. No two days are the same."

"And socially?" There it was. "Are you seeing anyone currently?"

Emily's eyes twitched, but she kept them on Elizabeth. Nearby, it was as though she could feel the air between her and Hotch stiffen. She shook her head, "I'm very busy with work, Mother. And I'd rather not discuss that in front of my boss."

"Oh, he doesn't care, do you Agent Hotchner?" Hotch opened his mouth to speak, but Emily cut across him.

"It's not your place to say who cares or who doesn't, mother. And my love life, as usual, is none of your business. Please don't pry."

"I'm hardly prying, darling. You're turning 30 this year, don't you think it's high time you at least tried to settle down?" Elizabeth pushed, harder. Emily wanted to bite her tongue, knew she should. She was too old to let her mother get to her this way.

"Couldn't you have just taken me to dinner to berate me over this mother? Or is the public humiliation aspect what gets you off?" The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, and Emily felt both embarrassed and vindicated as she saw the shock on Elizabeth's face. Quick as it had come, the anger in Elizabeth's eyes faded and, as she always had, she pretended to be the bigger person.

"Come, now, Emily, that's not very festive," Elizabeth rolled her eyes, "I was only asking you a simple question. No need to snap at me."

"Ah, yes, nothing says festive quite like a party at a plantation," Emily sniped, lifting her glass to her lips to punctuate her words. Elizabeth's face was a picture, her nose turned up towards her daughter in distaste, and though she remained impassive on the outside, inside Emily was smiling. "Oh, come now, mother, it's a party. Smile."

Emily grabbed her bag from the table and strode away into the crowd. Trust Elizabeth to turn a surprisingly pleasant conversation into something ugly; she should have expected it. For just a moment, though, she had stepped away from everything she knew, she had let down her guard, let Elizabeth snake beneath her barriers and, as usual, Elizabeth had taught her why that was a mistake.

Emily was halfway across the dance floor when she felt a large hand close around her wrist.

"Emily, don't-what are you doing?" She had automatically placed a hand on his shoulder, her wrist sliding out of his grip as she laced her fingers through his.

"Oh, I-" She had moved automatically; they were in the middle of the dance floor, after all. Hotch adjusted quickly, placing a hand on her waist and stepping into her space. She was stiff in his arms for a moment, feeling awkward about his hesitation, but as he began to lead her in a slow dance, she relaxed.

"Sorry, I just..." She trailed off, unsure.

"It's okay, we are on a dance floor."

"Not that," Emily shook her head, not looking at him as she spoke. "Not that. My mother. She makes me crazy, she always has. I'm sure from the outside, it looks like nothing, but it's like dog whistling. She knows exactly which buttons to press. And I guess I never grew out of taking the bait."

"I know what a taunt looks like, Emily," He said, bluntly. "You have nothing to apologise to me for. That's why I came after you, instead of staying back there with her." Over his shoulder, Emily could see Elizabeth watching them dance; her face sour. "I wanted to make sure you were okay. She was obviously looking for a reaction."

"Yeah, nothing new there," It was difficult to not be spiteful about it. Emily tried not to seem like a petulant child. Instead, she leaned into the comfort she felt.

A moment ago, she was angry and irritated, her heart hammering quickly in her chest, blood beginning to pound in her ears. Now, her heart rate was slowing, the redness rising on her chest and in her cheeks fading away. Her ears were no longer pulsing. Hotch didn't say much more, he simply led her in their dance. Even when the song changed, they kept dancing. Emily didn't want to leave the dance floor. She was safe here; no one was interrupting them here. She didn't have to put on fake smiles, or relive old memories. She didn't have to go through the conversational motions; how are your children? how is your wife? oh she passed? I'm so sorry, I hadn't heard. Fake niceties, even faker smiles, behind which she knew lurked judgements just like those her mother had of her. Each time she saw eyes flicker down to her bare ring finger, she felt it. She resented it.

Elizabeth brought out something ugly in her daughter; that was the real reason Emily hadn't wanted to come tonight. Not only had she stepped back in time when she stepped into her dress, every word Elizabeth said to her made Emily feel seventeen years old again, and she had acted like it.

"I'm not-" She tried to speak, but stumbled over her words. She needed to make her excuses, she needed to say something because, as they danced, as the anger seeped away, all that was left was embarrassment that, of all people, he had seen that side of her. "My mother, she just..."

"You don't have to explain to me." She felt his chest rumble against her own, as he spoke low and soft, and she heard the sincerity in his voice. No judgement.

"Thank you," she told him, softly. The hand on her back flexed, then relaxed, pulling her slightly closer. Emily glanced up at him, for the first time since she'd begun dancing. She hadn't been this close to him since that first night. His eyes were focused on something over her head, but his lips twitched into the smallest of smiles.

"Of course."