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Say my name,
And every colour illuminates,
We are shining,
And we'll never be afraid again.
-"Spectrum"; Florence and The Machine
Paris is beautiful, as she expects it to be. Emily is a well-traveled woman, had been a well-traveled child, and even with such a variety of places to choose from, Paris is still a place that she holds dearly in her heart. Rome had been that place, once, those many years ago, but she's learned to move on; no reasons she has to dwell on the past there. Her baby had gone, Matthew is gone – Rome has nothing for her to keep close.
But in Paris now, it brings the birth of chance and hope. Hope of a new beginning, hope of a new life.
Hope for a new love.
He sent her off from Bethesda with kisses and tears and whispered promises; she shed more tears than he, but there were tears running down his face when she stared up into his eyes. He promised her, soon, he said. Soon, we'll be together again. Their hands had clung to each other in white-knuckled clenches until they could hold no longer, and the broken mask of his handsome face had made her wish he could come with her then.
But she knows he can't, not with the team mourning her so deeply still. He waits to put in a transfer out temporarily somewhere – Afghanistan, finally – after weeks of counseling and wishing Emily was still there with them. He can't have the team be suspicious of his departure, but when he tells Rossi of his assignment, the older man actually seems relieved.
He thinks that Aaron is going away to mourn Emily by himself. He doesn't correct Rossi's assumptions. He doesn't want anything but to be at her side.
The weeks pass with a deep aching in her chest, the wounds that heal over and leave a lonely sadness in their wake as she sits in her Parisian apartment and waits for his call. And call he does, every moment of the day that he can; he speaks and she listens, she speaks and he listens, and most times they end the call with teary goodbyes and promises of soon. Every night she spends away from him, she falls to sleep with the sound of his low voice soothing in her ear.
I love you, Emily mine. I'll be there soon.
She goes to bed with tears in her eyes, but a smile on her lips.
And then that morning, that uneventful morning of laundry and French news and Parisian atmosphere, Emily gets a text. There are only three people who know her number; JJ, Clyde, and Aaron. So when her phone buzzes beside her coffee and crepe, Emily knows without checking, that Aaron has texted her.
Her heart beats fast in her chest, the wings of a butterfly fluttering wildly as she brings the phone closer to her face and opens the message. When the words register in her mind, her eyes well and from her mouth comes a breathy gasp before she begins to sob openly there in the café.
Tonight. Je'taime, moi Emily.
He's coming home to her tonight.
She waits on the dark landing strip nervously; it's been a while since she's been so exposed out in the open, but the nervousness is not something she feels for herself. She feels it for them; for Aaron and little Jack, the two boys who sit on the BAU's private jet to come to her now in the cool Parisian night. She stands and waits in the shadow of the night, alone and acutely aware of her surroundings, but the fears and anxieties melt away as she finally sees the white jet come to a land, and she moves swiftly across the tarmac to meet the unfolding jet door.
Her breath catches in her throat, Emily is pinned to her spot there amidst the rushing winds and slowing engines as the tall figure emerges from the jet, the slumbering boy in his arms. He stands at the top of the stairs, dark eyes meeting hers even in the dim lighting, and Emily rushes to him with a happy sob as he descends the stairs.
She stops just two feet away from him, chest heaving and eyes wide as she stares at him. It's almost too surreal to see him there in front of her; so many nights she's dreamed of this moment – of seeing Aaron again and now he's here.
He's really here.
She throws her arms around him, cautiously so as not to jostle the sleeping boy in his arms too much. She wraps her arms around his neck tight, presses her face into the crook of it as close as she can and just breathes him. He smells exactly the same; Old Spice and warmth and Aaron.
He smells like home.
"I've missed you," she whispers, and it condenses against the heat of skin. "I've missed you so much."
He wraps his arm around her tight, Jack settles on his hip as he pulls both of them close, pulling Emily into him as he presses his mouth to the side of her head and lets the feel of her sink into his bones. There's no explaining how it feels to just have someone fit into you; fill the void that feels like a physical hole in your chest. It's hard to explain, and Hotch doesn't even try.
He just knows that the hole is there no more.
"I'm here," his low voice promises her, and in his chest his heart clenches when he feels the wet heat of her tears against his skin. He can't imagine what it's been like for her to be alone in another country, and honestly he doesn't want to dwell on it.
Not tonight. Not right now.
"I'm here now, Emily, and I'm never leaving your side again," he whispers, and Emily pulls her face from his neck, sniffling and teary eyed. Their eyes meet – equal darkness molding and merging into one another as he unwraps his arm from her shoulders and reaches out to wipe the tears that mark her face.
Emily grasps his large hand to her face, pressing her cheek into his palm as he cups her face. The callused pad of his thumb leaves a cold wet trail on her cheekbone as he wipes the tear away, and she can't help but smile at the tender look upon his face.
"Welcome to Paris."
They find themselves in her apartment, lingering out in the cold air of her little balcony. Jack sleeps peacefully in her large, king sized bed, having excited himself into slumber on the plane ride over. The apartment is something he imagines to be Bohemian in its Parisian way, nothing too fancy, but all things in Paris have its charm. The paint of the walls is chipped and missing in places; the wood of the pane and the doors are old and cracked, but still beautiful. In their age, they give the little apartment character – an identity that seems to suit the dark hair and pale skinned woman.
Paris truly is beautiful at night; it's never anything less than beautiful, but the lights of the Parisian night leave Hotch breathless. There are only so many synonyms for beautiful that he knows…
…but the one that he knows for sure is Emily. There is no place on Earth, no star that shines as beautifully as Emily.
"Paris suits you," he tells her, in the quiet moonlight and chilly air. He stands beside her on the small balcony, barely big enough for the both of them, but just enough. It's like watching a painting when he looks at her; this beautiful woman with a beautiful profile, leaning against the rails of her balcony of her French apartment.
When she turns her head to him, smile at the corner of her mouth, he sees the truth in the beauty. He sees the sadness in the contentment.
Emily shrugs, curling into his chest when he holds his hand out to her. "It's overrated sometimes," she murmurs, muffled in his shirt as she presses her face into it and sighs. "It's a beautiful place full of beautiful people, but it's just so full of false promises and depressing truths." She doesn't want to tell him how lonely it's been for her; how much the silence and isolation has slowly driven her crazy, but by the way his arms tighten around her frame, Emily knows she doesn't need to.
He knows. He always knows.
"I don't think it's overrated," he utters lightly, shrugging his shoulders when she peers up at his face with a cynical arch of her brow. "As you said, it's a beautiful place full of beautiful people." He raises an eyebrow pointedly. "You're beautiful, and Paris is beautiful too. So you were right about it being full of beauty. But I don't believe it's full of promises and depressing truths."
"No?" Emily echoes, raising an eyebrow and smirking at the man when he casts a droll look at her.
He shakes his head the negative. "Not a bit," he tells her, pulling her close and wrapping his arms around her narrow waist, resting his hands on the swell of her ass. He grins mischievously at her when she raises an eyebrow at him again; the same look she gives him whenever she calls him out on his bullshit. "I think it's a place meant for new beginnings and new memories. Memories we're meant to make together."
Emily's eyes stare up at his face with a soft indulgence, smiling despite herself at his profound belief in change and hope. Her grip tightens into the material of his shirt, and Emily sighs again, contently. "I can't believe you're really here."
Over her head, Hotch smiles at the woman. There's a childlike wonder in her voice; it has always amazed him at how adaptable Emily is, despite all that they've seen and done. It's what draws him to her, he supposes. That she understands both the dark and light of the world – of his mind - that she sees the grey with the black and white. "I'm not going anywhere," he rumbles, pressing another kiss into her hair and savoring the scent of her hair that he's been missing so badly.
He wants to wake up to dark hair fanning across his pillow; the sweet scent of vanilla and peach on the covers.
"How long can you stay?" she whispers to him, pulling back to stare up at his face. It's shadowed in the moonlight and the yellow streetlights, but she can make out his mouth perfectly; soft and inviting. She feels his hands curve around her hips, holding her to him as his fingers stroke against the skin he's found underneath her shirt. The feel of his fingers on her skin is oddly soothing, arousing and tempting all at the same time.
He smiles down at her, a quiet, secretive smile that has her smiling back with low, hooded eyes. "As long as you want me to, sweetheart."
With his hand still firmly in hers, she leans forward, on her tiptoes, and captures his downturned lips. She kisses him softly first, gently, stroking his cheek as he leans down to return the kiss with fervor. Beneath her palm, she can feel the beginnings of stubble, and thinks to herself what a handsome Bohemian rogue he'll make. He'll fit right into the crowd by the end of their time together. But that's a thought for another time, as she feels his tongue swipe along her lower lip, seeking entrance. She moans her approval, burying hands in his short dark hair as he plunders forward eagerly.
She tastes like coffee and something sweet and starchy; a pastry of some sort, perhaps, from one of the many cafés on the street. It's a taste like the essence of Paris on her tongue, and he deepens the kiss in a selfish need of committing the taste and feel and sound of her to his memory. He wants to drown in her, to kiss her so hard it leaves him dizzy for air, and then he wants to lay her on her bed and love her like he's been dreaming to.
His hands move impatiently against her body, stroking, grazing and cupping every inch of her that he can; claiming her skin like a possessive flame. The cold air against his heated palms makes her shiver and arch, keening into his mouth as the dark growl spills from his throat and his hands find their way under her top. They span upwards, wide and encompassing over her ivory skin, and Emily recoils on instinct when she feels his fingers brush along the puckered flesh of her scar.
She rips her mouth from his with a harsh gasp, gripping his wrists in a desperately tight hold as she opens her lust-glazed eyes onto his, and he watches through his own arousal as they dim into wide, fearful orbs of darkness. "Don't!" she breathes, and suddenly she feels the cold air biting into her skin. Her chest is heaving against his, the pink flush of arousal rising along her neck and collarbone, but her eyes betray her fear and uncertainty.
The wounds are still tender and pink; they're ugly and they're Doyle's, and she hates them. She hates them so much she can feel the anger welling in the throat now, and the tears in her eyes as she shakes her head at Hotch's startled gaze and pushes him away. "They're ugly," she whispers, the contempt and self-loathing thick in her voice as she turns away from his seeking grasp, wrapping her arms around herself protectively.
He stands there for a moment, too dizzied by the kiss and too stunned by her sudden change of behavior to move. Presently he catches his breath and wipes the cloud of passion from his mind, and he frowns at Emily gently when she curls her body away from him, thin arms wrapped around her body defensively as she stares at everywhere but his face. His hands feel longingly empty without her body against them, and he reaches out for her.
"Don't!" The sharp cry startles him, and her too, as they stare at each other for a stunned moment before Hotch pushes on stubbornly and grasps her elbow in his palm. She struggles against him but he gives her no opportunity to escape him as he crowds her into the far corner of the small balcony, his frame blocking the path back into the apartment. Her eyes are terrifyingly wide now as she darts glances over his shoulder, searching desperately for a route away from the man, but there is none.
He lowers his head down closer to her, running his hands along her elbows up to her arms as she looks away still. She's biting her lip, a habit he knows that stems from her anxiety, and so he reaches up and takes her chin in his hand, and forces her to look him in the eye. "Do they hurt?" he asks her quietly, gently as she searches his face for something – disgust, probably, or maybe sympathy.
She doesn't find it.
Emily gnaws on her lip nervously, her tongue darting out to lick the corner of her mouth as she summons the courage to speak. He's looking at her with so much love, so much understanding and gentleness that she hates that it brings her to tears – she hates how much he loves her. "They're ugly," she repeats, quiet and small. It's unlike her. "You read what he did to me, Aaron. You know what he left on my skin." Her stomach roils at the memory of the brand sinking into her skin, and her chest throbs in sympathy of the pain.
"I'm damaged goods now," she whispers, and it breaks his heart to know that she truly thinks so. "You're better than damaged goods."
The grip on her chin tightens, and Emily stares up at his face now to see the hard set of his jaw and the stubborn lines of his forehead. The hardness is contradicted by the softness in his eyes; the dampness of his hazel eyes as he stares down at her sadly and strokes his thumb along her jawline. "You are not damaged goods, Emily," he chides her firmly, and his free hand slides along her stomach, despite her feeble protests, and he finds the scar once more.
His thumb strokes the soft flesh, healing from where the table leg had stabbed through her, and he holds her firmly as she lowers her hands to push his hold away. "You are not damaged goods," he repeats, firmer now; the Unit Chief coming through as she stares at him helplessly. "You are a fighter, and a survivor of terrible things. You went through hell and you crawled out of it with the scars to prove your battle. They are not ugly; they are not disgusting; they are not anything but a part of you." He lays his palm over the scar, warmth radiating through his skin into hers as he fixes her with a stubborn gaze still.
"They are part of your skin; part of the map of your life that only serves to prove to me how strong you are. They prove to me how much love you are capable of. And Emily," he lowers his mouth to hers, just barely ghosting her parted lips as he breathes the next words to her. "You have so much love to give."
When he pulls back, he has a disparaging smile on his face, and she has tears in her eyes. "Look," he soothes her, taking her hand in his and sliding it beneath his shirt, letting her fingers find the raised skin of his scars; lets her stroke them and caress them in a speechless wonder. "You have your scars, and I have mine." Her hand finds the scar highest on his chest; the one just off his heart, and he holds her hand there with his, smiling wryly. "We match now."
Emily sniffles, berating herself internally for being so weak; for turning such an amazing moment into something of cheesy romance novels and movies. But she's not crying for that – she's crying because she can't begin to comprehend her sheer luck at having such an amazing man be in love with her. She can't grasp the idea that he loves her despite her history, her time with Interpol and Doyle, and she can't for the life of her even begin to understand how he can love her with scars on her body that will always remind them both of another man.
"Why are you so good to me, Aaron?" Her voice is as quiet as the wind; and just about as broken. A lone, hot tear spills from her eye, leaves its burning trail down her cheek, but he sweeps it away with his thumb as he cups her cheek in his hand and gazes down at her.
"Because you're worth it," he tells her, and it's as plain and simple as that. "I almost let you slip through my fingers twice, Emily – you should've never had to deal with Doyle alone, and you most definitely shouldn't have been put in his hands at the end of it all. I should've been there from the very beginning, and I wasn't. Now I'm not about to make the same mistake again."
His lips find hers in a gentle, tentative kiss that deepens gradually as Emily sighs into his mouth and wraps her hands around his waist beneath his shirt. When he pulls back this time, Emily tries to follow with a disappointed whimper, but he pulls back fully and smiles at her sulking pout. "If you're not ready for this, Emily, I will wait," he promises her. "We'll take things slow, until you're ready to trust me again." He sees the flicker in her dark eyes and the flutter of her lashes.
Emily licks her lips, tasting him on her mouth as she sucks in a cold breath of air and stares into his hazel eyes uncertainly. He's offering a lot, even if he doesn't say it – she's learned to read him and his gestures and his words a long time ago, and what he's offering her is scaring her just a little bit. The permanence of it makes her nervous, but she wants it. She wants it so badly it puts an ache in her chest now as she stares up at his handsome face and the promise of hope in his eyes.
"Slow?" she asks him; offers him as she slides her hands into his, and grips them tight.
Hotch smiles, a broad, dimpled thing, and Emily can't help but reciprocate it with her own wide, hopeful grin. "We'll go as slow as you want. It's just me, you and Jack here. There is no FBI, there's no Interpol here. There's no Lauren Reynolds or Ian Doyle here." He takes her hand in his, and kisses it. "It's just us."
She licks her lips and nods her head slowly. "Okay," she murmurs. "Okay."
The next morning, they start slow. They fall asleep in bed together, wrapped around each other like puzzle pieces long separated. He wakes to the scent of her on his pillow and she wakes to the warm spice of his skin, and when Jack wakes to Emily's beautiful face and all but throws himself at her, they tell the boy they're taking a holiday together. They tell the boy that it's time for family, and by the end of the day, after croissants, smooth hot chocolate and walks along the Seine and feeding ducks; when they put Jack to bed together in Emily's big Bohemian bed, it feels like exactly that.
It feels like family.
Perhaps it'll get easier, over time, to move on. It won't be an overnight miracle to forget the things she's gone through, but she has faith now that things will get better. She has reason to do so now.
After all, she's a part of something bigger now. She's not alone anymore.
She has a family now.
As she crawls into bed, nestling into his chest like a purring cat that for a moment makes her miss Sergio, Emily stares up at Aaron's handsome face. His thin framed glasses are low on the ridge of his nose as he reads, and she reaches up to push it aside as she steals his lips for a kiss. "Je ne peux pas exprimer à quel point je t'aime," she breathes, smile curling on her lips as he hums at her in return, hands sliding up to cup her ass.
He grasps the firm muscles in his hands, grinning at her as he slides his hands under her tank top and runs ticklish trails along her spine. It has come to light that Aaron Hotchner speaks just about as much French as Emily does, and the woman has taken delight in whispering the most suggestive things in his ear in the language of love.
"Pourquoi parler quand on peut montrer moi?" he asks her, arching an eyebrow rakishly, and Emily giggles at him. It tickles her to no end, how deliciously deep his voice is when he speaks French, the language rolling off his tongue so effortlessly despite the years of disuse.
"Because, Agent Hotchner," she purrs, burrowing into his chest and settling her head into the crook of his neck. "Your son is sleeping not two feet away from us." Her eyes open and they both glance to where Jack is nestled safe and content under the covers, most likely dreaming of their day and the French words Emily taught him. "I don't think that's something he should wake to – Daddy and Emmy playing hide the sausage under the covers. It'll last for five years of therapy at least."
He chuckles at her, pulling the woman down for another kiss as she moans into his mouth before he pulls her down beside him, tucking her into his side. "I guess we probably should hold off then, hmm?" He grins again when Emily nods like a bobble-head, planting a kiss on her forehead. "I guess we'll just have to wait until Jack gets distracted enough to nap in the afternoon, or we'll save up for when we get home."
Emily freezes in his embrace, and she lifts her eyes slowly to him. "Home?" she asks him, the hope is too thick to hide in her voice as her wide eyes stare up at him, and he thinks Bambi can't hold a candle to Emily Prentiss' eyes.
"Home," he promises her, and Emily seems to accept this, for she proceeds to rest her head on his chest, their intertwined hands on his stomach. With a last, content sigh, she lets her eyes slip shut, and she dreams of home. She dreams of going home to her family, and perhaps starting one of her own with the man and little boy beside her.
In the meantime though, she makes a note to take them to the Louvre tomorrow.