Chapter Text
Walking up to the stone building Emily pulls on the hem of the plaid pleated skirt she's wearing, feeling incredibly juvenile with her tights on underneath and a pair of Mary Jane's on her feet. It reminds her distinctly of her days at Holy Cross Academy for Girls.
The outfit seems to garner much more adult attention now that she's 19, home from her first year at Yale. She's caught more than a few longing glances from men old enough to be her father, and double that many disapproving glares from women old enough to be her mother.
She can't say she blames them, equally unhappy herself about her current attire.
She hadn't expected an easy summer, taking a full course of eight-week classes online and she'd expected to pick up a few hours here and there babysitting for some extra cash. All the money that comes from the 'Bank of Elizabeth' comes with strings attached.
Embassy parties, charity events, the occasional date with a Senator's son.
But when she'd returned home only four days ago her mother had informed her that she's been effectively cut off for the summer, telling the university student that she needs to learn to support herself before she's out on her own. That or she'll be working full time and have nowhere to live until the dorms open again for the fall semester.
Unfortunately Emily had opened her big - unfiltered-after-many-months-away - mouth and had offered to get a gig at the strip club a half hour outside the city.
Which is how her mother had instead come up with this particular punishment.
The Cathedral stands tall amongst the Georgetown homes and small shops, imposingly large and strikingly beautiful with its stained glass windows and old stone walls well-kept even after years of wear and tear.
It's been years since she's been here but it's still familiar, the church she and her mother had attended together when they'd found themselves at their home base for a few weeks between embassy postings in other continents.
It's been years now since she's so much as stepped foot on the grounds, and no amount of groveling had persuaded her mother to let her get a job at a local farmers market or as a live-in-nanny.
So she's here, brushing out the wrinkles from the white button up tucked into her skirt, taking one last steadying breath before she steps through the open doors of the church and her shoes make a soft tapping noise on the stone floor as she makes her way down the aisle toward the alter.
The pews are mostly empty, only a few women kneeling in the church with rosaries clasped between their hands and their eyes screwed shut while they pray to a man she affectionately refers to as 'sky daddy' who she's pretty sure isn't really there.
This is a particularly bizarre turn of events for an agnostic, resentful of her own experiences in the church. As resentful and uncomfortable as she is, it's all to easy to slip back into her Catholic-schoolgirl best with a smile and a "Hello, Father" when she's approached by a man nearing his sixties who greets her with a smile of his own.
"Oh, none of that, please." He pulls her into a gentle hug that she returns easily, more than familiar with the man in a clerical collar. "How many times have I told you to just called me Joe?"
"And how many times have I told you there's no way in hell that's happening?" Her challenging arched brow makes him laugh, pulling her against his side and leading her toward the alter.
"Oh, you haven't changed a bit have you?"
"From the little shit of a child who pushed every button known to man for the sole purpose of causing chaos for the nuns?"
"I was going to say the headstrong young lady too intelligent for her own good, but your version of events works just as well." He pats her shoulder affectionately as they pass the confessional booth she'd spent too many days in, baring her soul to the man beside her before she'd suddenly stopped attending services and had left without so much as a goodbye.
But he's a priest, he doesn't hold it against her.
They walk through the back door and through a small garden, heading through the side door on a decent sized cottage that she thinks could be quite pretty if they'd clean the windows and keep up on the plant overgrowth.
Maybe it'll be part of what's expected of her.
"I have to say, I'm surprised you've taken up the job. Tea?"
"Please." She drops her purse on a table cluttered with Bibles and donated clothing. "And you can thank my mother for my presence here today, something about needing Jesus."
"Now that doesn't surprise me." He grabs two mugs, motioning for her to make herself comfortable in the rectory kitchen. "Anything that gets you in the door is good enough for me."
"Hmm, how did I know you were going to say that?"
He pours steaming liquid into two large mugs. "So, how long has it been?"
"How long has what been?" She's playing dumb, acting like she doesn't know exactly what he means. It dissuades most people, nobody wants to ask a straightforward question.
But he's a priest, he doesn't beat around the bush.
"Since you've attended Mass? Since you've received Holy Communion? Since you've gone to confession? Since you've prayed?"
She offers a weak shrug, crossing her legs under the breakfast table. "A few years."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
The smile she gives him is tight and she shakes her head. "I'm here for a job, not soul purification."
"Well if you change your mind, the offer stands."
"Noted." She accepts the cup of tea he passes her, inhaling the scent of jasmine mingled with the scent of old Bibles and whatever lemon scented disinfectant they use to clean the beautifully stained wood of the kitchen table they're seated at. "So, care to fill me in on the job?"
She even goes as far as to pull out a pad of paper and a pen from her purse, ready to scribble down the duties he'll assign to her. He takes the chair across from her, sliding a few books to the side so there's enough room for their drinks and her paper.
"It's nothing too demanding, just some general upkeep. Sweeping, vacuuming, dusting, organizing files as they arrive. We cook for ourselves and our bedrooms are our own business unless we request a cleaning. I haven't known Father Hotchner long enough to know if he'd like his laundry washed, but you won't be expected to clean mine while I'm still here."
"Right, the Ambassador mentioned something about your retirement but I had no idea it was official."
"I'm afraid so, only a few more weeks and I'm off to Indiana."
"Why Indiana?"
"My brother lives there, he's not in good health and we'd like to be closer before one or both of us pass in the coming years."
The idea of him passing makes her chest ache. He's a source of comfort in her life, priest or not.
"I'm going to miss you, you're my favorite priest." She pauses, cup of tea halfway to her mouth. "Am I allowed to say that?"
He shoots her a wink over his own cup. "It'll be our secret."
She laughs and drops her capped pen to the table, watching it roll off the side and hit the floor before she can reach for it.
"Oh, and if you could make a call about a new table? Ours is a little shaky." He proves his point by pressing down on one side, watching it pop back up when he removes his hand.
She nods and pushes herself back from the wobbly table. "Noted." She drops to the ground, reaching under the table to grab her pen because she's not going to be seen by anyone - stray priest, parishioners, or God himself - letting a 60-year-old man go searching under a table for a pen she's perfectly capable of getting.
She's a bitch, but she's not heartless. Her fingers grasp the pen and she huffs out a breath of air with a triumphant smile. "So, where is this mysterious Father Hotchner? Shouldn't he be showing me around himself?"
"He should, but he got held up." Emily startles at the new voice in the room, whacking her head on the table.
"Shit!" She hisses out, a laughed 'language please' coming from both priests at her pained reaction. She holds the back of her head, busy scooting backward so she's not halfway under the table when a warm hand lays itself gently over her own.
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." She brushes off her skirt, a little dusty from the floor, and finally looks up at the man who's joined her.
Shit.
He's knelt on one knee before her, a warm smile on his face. He's got pretty honey brown eyes, well kept dark hair and a dimple in his cheek. He's younger than she'd expected, likely only a handful of years older than her, and when he stands she notes that he looks almost sinful in his cassock and the thought makes her cheeks burn red.
Then she realizes she's still kneeling in front of him, mouth slightly agape and he's holding out his hand for her to take and suddenly she's all too aware of how short her skirt is and how many buttons remain undone on her blouse.
She takes his hand with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Father Aaron Hotchner I presume?"
"That's me, and you must be Emily Prentiss." He smiles at Father Joseph and tips his head toward the living room, hands clasped behind his back and she walks alongside him with her hands firmly gripping her pad of paper so she doesn't fidget or pick at her nails.
"That's me." The following silence stretches out, and while she's sure he's more than comfortable she can't say the same for herself. "So, you're new."
"What gave it away?" The corner of his mouth tugs up, that dimple she'd seen earlier denting his cheek.
"Besides the fact I've attended services here my whole life and have never seen you before?"
"Yes, besides that."
"You're young, I'm guessing you're just past the cutoff?"
He grins and nods the affirmative, as if her deduction is something nobody else could've picked up on.
Has he even seen himself?
"26, so fairly close. You're what? 19? 20?"
"Almost 20, although my age doesn't hold as much significance as yours. Joining the priesthood so young, they must love you. Not just the church either, the public too."
"Oh, and why's that?"
Her cheeks flame red, seeing the knowing smirk on his lips that's daring her to say what she means. He doesn't know her, doesn't know she's nothing if not blunt.
"You're a sight for sore eyes, Father. I'm sure you pull a much younger crowd than Father Joseph might."
He gives her a full smile now, clearly startled by her bluntness. "Well, I'd like to think God is who's bringing a younger generation to ours doors, but I fear you might be onto something."
"Anything that gets them in the door, right?"
He recognizes the idea and shakes his head with a smile. "You've been spending too much time with Father Woodcroft."
The tour of the rectory is quick and simple, adding a few things to her list of responsibilities such as dishes which he's requests and a proper window cleaning that he approves.
He offers to help with the garden should their schedules align and she assures him she can fit some time in on a weekday when she's finished with her homework.
He's even nice enough to let her bring her homework with, telling her she can study during her work hours so long as she's keeping up on her duties.
"So, you've attended services here your whole life. I've been here a few months, I haven't seen you. Have you found a new parish?" It's a fair question that he asks once they've stepped outside, walking along the path around the church that she can recall running down as a child.
"I've been in New Haven actually, for college."
"Yale." She smiles and flushes under his approving gaze. "Impressive, may I ask what you're studying?"
"I'm not really sure yet, I'm still figuring it out. As is I'm studying linguistics, but there's so many routes I can go with that and I'm not sure which one feels right."
"You have plenty of time, not everyone knows what they want to do right out of high school."
"Unlike you, 26 and you've alright signed your life away."
"I like to think I've dedicated my life to serving a higher purpose." He counters, bumping his shoulder against hers and it makes unexpected butterflies flutter in her belly.
Stop it, Emily, he's a fucking priest.
"So, you didn't answer my question, have you found a new parish?"
"Observant." She mentions, receiving a smile and a shrug in return.
"Job requirement."
"To answer your question; no, I haven't attended Mass in a few years."
"Maybe I inquire as to why?"
She presses her lips together in a tight smile, eyes flicking to him and back to the ground. "It's going to take a lot more than a nice smile and a cup of tea to hear that particularly grim tale, Father."
They reach the end of the path and Emily shoves her notepad into her purse, gripping the leather slung over her shoulder. "So, I guess this is it. Can I ask what the hours are for the position?"
He barks out a laugh. "You accepted the job without knowing the hours?"
She wrinkles her nose in irritation. "It's a condition of living at home, I didn't have much of a choice so I'll make it work."
He knows he's falling into some morally gray area, at least he would be in her eyes, but he can't help himself. "The hours are Tuesday four to seven in the evening, Thursday is the same, and noon to four on Sundays."
He'll go to confession for that lie as soon as he's finished here.
His lip pulls up in a smile. "You may find it easier to attend Mass since your work hours begin just after we've finished."
She laughs and shakes her head. "You sure you want me here for that? I might heckle you from the back pew.”
He doesn't laugh, only straightens up and clasps his hands together in front of himself.
"Emily, you will be here on Sundays."
She's a deeply lapsed Catholic, but something in the way he demands her presence makes her shrink under his gaze and give a firm nod but he only stands there, waiting for the answer she knows she's supposed to give.
She gives it easily, but with heated cheeks and an unusual dampness in her panties that she hadn't expected. "Yes, Father."
His smile is immediate and his shoulders relax. "Brilliant, you can start this coming Sunday."
She gives him a tight smile, unsure of exactly how well this position is going to work out after all. "Great, I'll see you then." She only makes it a few feet when she turns back at the sound of her name. "Yes, Father?"
He smirks, a brow arched when he nods at her outfit. "The schoolgirl outfit is a nice touch, but it's not necessary."
She can feel the blush creeping up from her chest to her ears, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole.
"A dress or skirt will do for Sundays, other than that wear what you please."
"Noted, thank you."
He smiles and points at her feet. "Mary Jane's, really?"
She shrugs, laughing because she'd thought the exact same thing. "You can blame or thank my mother for this outfit, Father." This time it's his turn to blush and she finds that she rather likes his cheeks with a soft red tint. She waves, an extra pep in her step when she leaves in the direction of her car.
Maybe this won't be so bad after all.