The Third Year
The third year is a premonition.
Though, of course, she doesn't know it at the time.
At the time she's spooning soup into chipped bowls, laughing as she nudges against Rossi's side. It had been his idea, giving back rather than giving out. The rules are strict – no gifts for each other, just for those less fortunate. Even Reid doesn't seem quite as strange around the people seated around large round tables.
A smile plays over her face as Rossi teases the woman accepting the bowl from her outstretched hands, asking after the little boy that clings to his coat. Morgan's settled at a table with what looks like a bevvy of soldiers, eyes serious as he listens, but quick to light up at the more humourous tales. JJ and Garcia slip between tables, double checking bread baskets and tea cups.
But she can't say she's really watching any of them. Her eyes are drawn to the man off in a corner, eyes fixed on the little 'kids table' that's set up by a brightly shining tree. He stands beside a woman who just looks exhausted, his hand on the shoulder of another heavily pregnant mom-to-be. He looks strong and protective, looks like he's sharing stories about his own little boy, but Emily knows that it can't be quite that simple.
He's still hurting, still reeling, still trying to figure out where everything went wrong with his now-ex-wife, even though he knows the answer. And if she's honest, sometimes Emily hates the former Mrs. Hotchner. Sometimes Emily can't stand the fact that Haley had walked away with the only thing that has ever mattered to Hotch: his family. Sometimes she blames Haley for the chaos that ensued, the stupid decisions he made and the darkness that follows him around like Pooh's little black rain cloud. Not that she'd ever tell anyone the best reference she could come up with is a kids' cartoon.
She doesn't think he notices. She doesn't think he's paying enough attention to her to see how closely she watches him. But later, when they're all set to go home, he pulls her aside and gives her a long, gold-wrapped box. Her breath catches, even though it shouldn't. She'd long-suspected he was the giver of her last meaningful gifts.
"We aren't supposed to give things," she says quietly, even as she accepts the package.
"I'm not."
She doesn't open it until she gets home – his request. Inside are three birds – she's sensing a theme – and she inspects them with a surprising amount of care. Sure enough, there are little words stamped on the bottom, 'faith', 'hope' and 'charity'.
At the time, she isn't sure what he's trying to tell her.