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December 24th 2008, Quantico, Virginia
She finally had the chance to sport a smokey eye for the first time since last month, when she was lucky enough to be catapulted into the chokehold of Viper . That uptight boss of hers seemed to think that every time she whipped her tits out, the unsub would just confess all his sins like she was a damn priest. But today there were no unsubs, no seduction… just her, a sticky bar, and the beautiful aroma of whiskey dominating her senses.
Buffalo Mo’s smelled of ethanol and enmity, though not everyone in there had a grudge against the world. The bar wasn’t yet lively by any means, but the sight of half empty pints of beer balancing on sticky, uneven barrels was far more positive than that of sitting at the end of an extravagant dining table opposite her mother . Just like every other year, she would’ve had her waist sucked in by an obnoxious dress so much that every breath was like a workout in itself. Then came the besiegement of entitled, basic rich men—like a real life Badoo . Ridiculous. Drowning her melancholy away and replacing it with toxic substances was a much better alternative.
He came straight from the office. His original plan was to return home to his wife and child, until he remembered that there was no longer a wife, nor was there a child. The unrelenting need to catch serial killers apparently trumped that picture perfect family he had, and it finally caught up to him in early 2008, when those divorce papers he had been dreading fell into his tired, gun-calloused hands. To top it all off, he had turned around to find himself face-to-face with Emily Prentiss , who he now respected greatly, perhaps the most of all his agents. Back then, however, he didn’t trust her. Didn't trust her motives or her methods. He had to hold it together so that he didn’t burst into tears over the inevitable, because he still just couldn’t handle it.
Buffalo Mo’s was an okay solution to his loneliness, it was quiet, dimly lit, and had that marinated alcohol smell to it that he could lose himself in if he really wanted to. Be lenient. Let it fill his nostrils, his lungs… and forget that the Christmas Eve of 2008 had even happened in the first place. That was until he was only two drinks in, still stone cold sober, since he had an annoyingly high tolerance to alcohol. Looking across the bar, he recognised a side profile paired with that raven hair that couldn't possibly belong to anyone else.
Sixth sense was a powerful thing. She believed in it, though she would never admit it—especially to those who consider it in the same vicinity as those crazy astrology nerds who think they can decipher your future based on the line patterns of your palms. Her sixth sense came to life when she felt a pair of eyes on her, about ten metres away from the other side of the rustic bar.
She raised her eyes, looking at this man through her ethereal eyelashes. What was Aaron Hotchner doing at Buffalo Mo’s on Christmas Eve ? As he clenched his jaw, she watched him approach her, the cacophony of voices tangled with music all but drowned out. It wasn’t that this man never failed to surprise her—he was comically predictable. But tonight, with magenta and indigo rays of light illuminating his face, he might just about have managed it.
“Aaron Hotchner.”
“Emily Prentiss,” he warmly mocked, his eyebrows raised but his mouth a perfectly straight line.
“Buffalo Mo’s for Christmas Eve?” She was genuinely perplexed at this choice of accommodation.
“My child has been confiscated from me. Apparently Haley thinks the fact I kept Jack an extra two nights than I was supposed to is borderline kidnapping.”
“I can’t blame her,” Emily shrugged, teasingly casual. He wore that authoritative glare on his face that was usually preserved for Morgan and Reid at the office. She just smiled sweetly, patted the seat next to her, and tossed her raven hair back to fall between her defined shoulder blades, exposed by a crimson red backless cami top.
“Alright, I’ll bite,” Hotch said, lowering himself onto the uncomfortably squeaky barstools. Emily raised her eyebrows, daring him to ask the question. “Why aren’t you with your family?”
“Well, you know how lovely my family is,” she chuckled bitterly. “I always end up getting trapped in some sort of rich boy showcase, one of them is supposed to end up being my husband or something.”
“I can’t think of too many awful elements about being married to a rich boy ,” he replied, doing air quotes on that sickening phrase.
“Why don’t you marry one then?”
“I’m afraid I don’t swing that way, Prentiss.”
“That’s good for me then,” she grinned, enjoying his disappointed glare more than she probably should have.
Beckoning the bartender over, she smiled at the beautiful woman, the black uniform shirt alarmingly low cut for such a setting. Emily didn’t seem to mind though, as her eyes glinted with mischief. Shamelessly, she leaned across the sticky, polished mahogany surface, and whispered sweet nothings into the ear of a very red-faced bartender. Lips parted, eyes dark, their faces were in such close proximity that he thought they may have been about to share something else other than oxygen. Emily leaned back, as the bartender scurried off, taking her bottom lip between her teeth.
“Impressed?” She turned to him, as he furrowed his brows, clearly not understanding the motive to Emily’s antics. “I got us a drink each for free.”
“And you chose for me?”
“Scotch on the rocks with a twist,” she whispered playfully, her mouth articulating each syllable. Turning back to the bar, she watched the bartender make their drinks with shaky hands.
“I don’t—“
“You don’t order it with a twist, I know. But Hotch, you need some tang in your life.”
He couldn’t help but stare back at her, releasing a breath he didn’t even know he was holding in exasperation. “I have enough tang in my life, thanks. This is probably classed as insubordination. I’m gonna fire you when we get back to work.”
“There’s no need for that. I only let out my true hilarious self with some good liquid courage in my system,” she retorted with good humour. “Plus, do you not ever think that I’m capable of working a double shift as your friend as well?”
“If you think being my friend is the equivalent of working a shift, then probably not,” he replied.
Emily shot him a piercing glare, before stifling a grin as the still alarmingly flustered bartender brought their drinks over.
“Gracias, hermosa,” she purred, her espresso shaded eyes enveloping the bartender in her full glory.
“Do you make it a habit to exploit vulnerable bartenders?”
“Nothing vulnerable about that one, boss.”
“You’re no better than a man,” he reprimanded, narrowing his eyes as he shook his head exaggeratedly.
“You know I was supposed to be here to flush away all my grief and despair with any alcoholic substance that imposes memory loss?”
“You and me both,” he mused, finally taking the time to truly absorb just how good Emily Prentiss wore a smokey eye like that. Her near black eyes surrounded by the midnight hues of that eyeshadow was reminiscent of charcoal, one that could permanently stain him if it really wanted to. Complemented by the raven hair, her intriguingly somber, noir demeanour was frankly addictive. Like a drug that kept begging to be consumed, until he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Hotch?” She raised an eyebrow, trying to decipher whether he was staring at her, or if he was somewhere else. Suddenly snapping back to reality, Hotch apologised, mumbling something incoherent before downing the rest of his drink. “Where were you just then?”
“Somewhere I wish I wasn’t,” he grumbled, looking straight ahead.
She took in his chiseled jawline, a prominent feature she had always found attractive on men, but especially Aaron Hotchner. Something about the traces of mystique and solemnity he carried with him were incredibly alluring, and if he wasn’t her boss, and she wasn’t so awkward when it came to men, she might’ve had half a chance.
One respective drink and meaningless conversations later, Hotch managed to conjure up enough courage. “Dance with me.”
“ Seriously ?” Emily chuckled, looking up at him with nothing but amusement and curiosity. Instead of replying, he slipped off the barstool, taking her soft, pale hand in his, and led her to the dance floor. For Christmas Eve, the entire establishment had surprisingly filled up in such a short amount of time; from young women, to gruff workers necking beer after beer, the dance floor was packed. Hotch, having gained more confidence post alcohol consumption, was finding no trouble pulling the agent into his body, groping her in places that a boss probably shouldn’t .
Annoyingly, her lean body fit into his like puzzle pieces. Emily laid her hand flat on his chest, ignoring the flush of her cheeks and the sudden change of temperature in the room.
“How sober are you, Aaron?”
“I have a regrettably high alcohol tolerance, so pretty sober. Why’d you ask?”
“Because we are partaking in activities that surely blur the line of a boss-subordinate relationship.”
“Tell me to stop, and I will,” he remarked dryly, though Emily didn’t miss the way the corners of his mouth were upturned. Smug little dick.
Her eyes, celestial like a black hole, sucked him in and he didn’t mind getting lost there right now. Or ever.
“You know I won’t do that.”
“Alright then.”
“You’re manipulative,” she retorted, though he felt every last goosebump on every inch of his body, as she snaked her hand around his neck. Every motion was slow, exploring him for the first time in a way neither of them were ready for.
“No, Emily, I just don’t want to wake up and pretend that this night never happened,” he lowered his voice, his breath fanning those fine baby hairs on her neck, his lips tenderly brushing her earlobe.
“What are you saying?”
“Dave thinks that we have been secretly dating ever since you quit and I took you to Milwaukee,” he replied bluntly. She couldn’t help but let out a giggle at that utterly ridiculous notion. Although, she had considered what it would be like with Aaron Hotchner; the stern, matter-of-fact, stoic man that no one could figure out.
“He wasn’t even there, was he?”
“Apparently Morgan and Reid had no trouble passing on the message,” he said, raising his eyebrows suggestively. Emily scoffed, shaking her head.
“Does the whole team think this?”
“JJ doesn’t.”
“I tell JJ everything, she would’ve known by now,” she sighed, exasperated by the efforts of her teammates. Though, she couldn’t help but feel a tinge of affection towards them, even if they couldn’t keep their noses out of anyone’s business.
He slid his hand further around her waist, fingers ever so slightly digging into the soft skin beneath the fabric of her top. As she swallowed deeply, she had to desperately refrain herself from violently shuddering at the sensation of his fingers pressing into her ivory skin. Their eyes simultaneously darkened, each glinting with the same level of want, as he watched her shapely lips part with anticipation. In the blink of an eye, she crashed her lips onto his, her erratic heartbeat showing no signs of slowing. Her tender fingers raked through his short locks of hair, willing him closer to her than is humanly possible.
Sliding her tongue cleverly along his lip, she grinned as she felt his desire for more. He was practically vibrating, and she wasn’t any better. She wouldn’t have minded teleporting home and slamming him down onto her mattress, right there and then.
Finally parting for oxygen, she felt his muscular chest rise and fall with each breath against her flattened hand.
“You waste no time, do you Prentiss?”
“It’s rude to keep a lady waiting, Hotchner,” she purred, batting her eyes flirtatiously.
“Well, thanks for making my Christmas Eve.”
“Ditto,” she smiled, pulling him in by his neck for another kiss, this one more tender, filled with bottled up emotions dating back to 2006–the highs and lows.
“Merry Christmas, Emily.”
“Merry Christmas, Aaron.”