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If there’s anything Emily’s daughter is, it’s obsessed with Tangled. The movie plays at least three times a week on your living room TV; you and Emily have memorized the dialogue somewhere around three months ago. Now you can easily recite it in your sleep, close your eyes and clearly picture Rapunzel and Eugene’s next moves.
Despite that, your daughter still remains infatuated. Which is why Emily is only briefly surprised when Eloise drops her hand with a gasp and takes off running to the end of the costume aisle, colorful lights bursting along her sneakers as she runs to the purple dress packaged beneath a picture of the princess.
“This one!”
Emily smothers her smile as Eloise rises on the very tips of her tiptoes, her fingers wriggling impatiently as she tries to reach the costume. She falls a few inches short, and her displeasure is immediately known in the twist of her lips.
“Mommy.” She whines at her mother’s slow approach.
“Hmm,” Emily hums. “How many times have we said not to run off, Eloise? You know you can’t do that when we’re outside.” She sweeps messy bangs away from Eloise’s eyes—the exact same shade as her own.
“Sorry. Can I have it? Please?” She settles back on the soles of her feet and hugs Emily’s legs. “Please, please, Mommy.” Her mouth curls into a pleading pout.
The long repeated reprimand fades into the background. Your daughter is usually good at following it, almost always content with holding either your hand or Emily’s, so she smiles softly and lets it go this once.
“How about we see it first, yeah sweetheart?” One of her hands goes to Eloise’s back as she grabs the costume off the shelf. Shades of purple wink up at her through the clear plastic, peeking out from beneath Rapunzel’s picture and the picture of the little girl displaying it. “Cute,” she says, absently combing her fingers through Eloise’s hair.
“Wanna see.”
Emily bends over to get closer to Eloise, letting her take the costume from her hands. “What do you think?” She murmurs, brushing her daughter’s bangs over the soft arch of her eyebrows. “Do you like it?”
“Yes!” Eloise gasps.
The palpable excitement in her voice makes the garish costume store a little more bearable. Emily smiles as she adjusts the hem of Eloise’s sweater down her stomach, having risen up in her strenuous pursuit of the costume. “Are you sure that’s the one you want? We haven’t seen many others.”
“Wanna be Rapunzel.” Eloise says firmly, nodding to herself as she hugs the dress to her chest.
“Alright, well if you’re sure,” Emily laughs, not in the least bit surprised at her five-year-old’s resoluteness. It’s something she’d gotten directly from her; Emily’s heart only expands at seeing roots of herself grow in her daughter.
“I’m sure.” Eloise drags out the word, stretching it out so it sounds like duh.
“Okay. Let me see if that’s your size.” Emily holds out her hand. With great reluctance, Eloise hands her the costume. Emily huffs out an amused laugh as she straightens, distantly wondering where her daughter got such an intense love for Halloween from. You’re mostly indifferent, and she hates it with more passion than it deserves. But your little gremlin has been talking nonstop about her costume for the past week, and after a brief debate—which Emily lost—you finally found the time to take her.
Though Emily feels two little arms wrap around her thigh, she places a hand on Eloise’s head for extra measure. Small fingers tickle her through her jeans as she rifles through the costumes, humming until she finds the proper size.
“Here it is. I think that’s about it—”
“I’m gonna be Rapunzel and you’re Mother Gospel!” Eloise announces as she steals the costume from Emily’s hands. Emily’s brows furrow.
“Gothel.”
“Garthel.”
Every time.
Emily lets it go. Instead she focuses on the more pressing issue her daughter presented. “You want me to be your evil Mommy?” She frowns at Eloise, the pout of her lips exaggerated.
Eloise is unfazed. “You’re not my evil Mommy, you’re ’punzle’s evil Mommy.” She says sagely. The circles of her eyes are wide, a shine to them that almost always ensures she’s going to get what she wants. “And I’m Rapunzel so you have to be her Mommy.” She reasons.
Emily swallows a grimace at the hopeful tone in her voice. Her distaste for Halloween peeks through her love for her daughter, the two conflicting sides clashing together as she looks down at the five-year-old expectantly tilting her chin up.
“Honey, I don’t really like wearing costumes for Halloween.” Emily says, slowly, as if it’ll soften the blow.
Eloise frowns. “Why?”
“Uhh...” It’s not the easiest thing to explain to her toddler that she despises the holiday partly because of her inability to unsee masked unsubs everywhere. But really a huge part of it Emily doesn’t understand herself; the unrestrained chaos of it, the headache of coming up with a costume each year, and—in more recent years—swapping out the candy after her daughter has passed out. It’s more hassle than it deserves, and Emily simply doesn’t have the patience for it.
“I don’t know.” She raises her shoulders in a jerky shrug. Her words seem extra lame when Eloise tilts her head, confused. “I’m not a fan, I guess.”
“But it’s Halloween.” She whines.
“I know, bug. But you know who’d match really well with you? Your—”
“Want you to be Mother Gospel.” Eloise grumbles, interrupting before Emily can throw the role on you—like she did last year. Her eyes turn stormy dark as the disappointment settles, etching itself in delicate frown lines across her young face. The happiness of acquiring her costume dissolves into a cloud, one that starts growing gray above her head, gathering with rain that reflects in Eloise’s eyes.
Emily’s stomach turns with guilt.
“Ellie…” She chews on her lip, feeling herself crumble beneath her daughter’s gaze. But then her eyes flit to the costumes around them and her nose wrinkles, almost against her will. “We’ll talk about it at home, okay? Let’s just get your costume now, it’s almost lunch time.”
Eloise sulks. She thrusts her arms out, a frown digging between her brows. “Mommy up.” She demands, almost as if it’s punishment.
Emily finds herself smiling. “Yes, my liege.” She says playfully, lightening her tone and hoping to pull a similar smile from her daughter as she lifts her up into her arms. Emily stifles a grunt as she heaves Eloise up against her chest, a dull strain pulling the muscles of her arms taut as she secures her little girl to her body, where she always used to lay as an infant. Admittedly, Eloise is heavier than she used to be, her rapidly growing body settling more firmly against Emily’s side. But she knows these days are starting to slip from her fingers, the sand draining to the other end of the glass, so Emily grasps each opportunity she can get, regardless of the ache in her back and hip.
Eloise still doesn’t smile back, so Emily kisses her cheek, hoping to find a dimple. “You know, you could do with being Mother Gothel yourself.” She murmurs as Eloise settles against her, the costume halfway squished between their bodies.
“She’s not a princess,” Eloise sighs heavily as she lays her head on her shoulder.
Which is definitely her only fault.
“How could I have forgotten,” Emily says, absently sweeping another kiss over Eloise’s forehead. “She’s not a princess. Does this come with a crown?” She tries to look down at the costume.
“Nu-uh.”
“Well, that won’t do. Our princess needs a crown, doesn’t she?”
“A purple crown.” Eloise agrees.
“A purple crown,” Emily parrots. She hoists Eloise higher on her hip, forcing her eyes away from the sweet relief of the cashier and to the endless shelves of accessories. She swallows down a deep sigh and tries to think of her daughter’s happiness. “Let’s browse their selection, shall we?”
___
“It’s the best costume in the world!” Eloise gushes, her eyes bright with excitement. She trips over the word costume, switching the s and t, which strikes Emily as a little odd for a girl who can effortlessly pronounce Rapunzel.
She laughs as she fixes the crown on Eloise’s head, silently hoping she never grows out of her endearing quirks. “It is pretty cool. Fine choice, m’lady.” She grabs Eloise’s hand and twirls her around in front of the mirror, smiling when the little girl giggles at the flare of her dress.
They spin until Eloise grows dizzy, tumbling into her mother, so Emily gently sits her down on the carpeted floor of her room. Her cheeks are flushed, the deep brown of her eyes glittering with glee. Once again her tiara tilts, slipping on her head.
“Your crown is lopsided, princess,” Emily murmurs, smiling as she fixes it. “Careful, it’s gotta be on straight.”
Eloise giggles, the sound breathless and bright as she places her hands on Emily’s knees, scrunching the fabric of her sweatpants. “Can we put the flowers in my hair?” She asks, tilting her head up to meet Emily’s eyes. The crown jostles further.
Emily hums and leaves it, finding the task futile. “Yeah, that would be a nice touch,” she taps the tip of her finger on Eloise’s nose, “maybe we can have some daises and—”
“And your hair curly!”
“Mine?” Emily’s brows lift. “Why? I think it looks pretty like this, don’t you?” She shakes out her—admittedly flat—hair.
Eloise shakes her head no. Her eyes narrow critically; she suddenly looks so much like you that Emily’s heart warms, a more than familiar desire to take her daughter into her arms and pepper her face with kisses floating through her veins.
“Y’cant be Mother Garthel without curly hair.” Eloise says.
The feeling dims.
“Eloise,” Emily sighs. “Mon chou, Mommy doesn’t wanna dress up.” She shrugs meekly.
“Please? Please, please, please, Mommy. Henry’s Mommy is gonna wear a costume. And Jack’s Daddy.” Eloise’s eyes grow wider as she crawls into Emily’s lap. Emily’s arms automatically wrap around her, the walls of her resolve crumbling as Eloise burrows closer. She can feel her walls tumbling down, a weary reluctance surfacing from beneath the chipped pieces of her hatred for the holiday as Eloise’s small fingers twist into the fabric of her sweater.
Distantly, Emily thinks that she used to be stronger than this. Her will was iron clad, her mind—once made up—impossible to budge. She’s still like this, you’d argue, only she’s incapable of showing that front to her daughter. She’s putty in Eloise’s hands, bendable and soft and completely, embarrassingly pliant. Which is inconvenient.
Still, Emily gently reminds her daughter of last year’s Halloween. The effort is half hearted at this point, the image of you and Eloise in your matching costumes fuzzy even in her own mind. When Eloise whines quietly, a sulk dragging her mouth down, it tips her over the edge.
“Want it to be you.” She says, her bottom lip starting to quiver.
Which is how Emily finds herself dressed in a red velvet dress on the 31st of October, her hair extravagantly curled and her hand held in Eloise’s. Her other arm is around your waist, her fingers absently rubbing the soft warmth of your costume.
“Thought you said you weren’t dressing up.” JJ’s brows lift, an amused glint shining in her eyes. You’re all standing on her porch, waiting for Henry to come out of the bathroom to take the kids trick or treating.
“The princess demanded it,” Emily says. Try as she might to sound annoyed, she can’t, because Eloise is beaming up at her, a wide grin on her face that displays all of her teeth. Emily smiles back, carving a dimple in her cheek that’s identical to the one in her daughter’s.
“Rapunzel can’t go as Rapunzel without Mother Gothel, right?” She winks. Eloise giggles delightedly, giving Emily a firm nod as she leans into her side.
Even with Jack next to her—dressed as Batman, with Hotch as Robin—she doesn’t let go of Emily’s hand. Her fingers are small and chilly, leeching warmth from the cocoon of her mother’s palm. The small gesture makes Emily’s heart squeeze, her body flood with warmth, and this miniscule pocket of mundanity makes Halloween well worth it.
“And what are you mean to be?” Hotch frowns, the edges of it soft and playful as he directs the question to you.
Emily turns, smothering a laugh at your defeated expression. The pale green of your onesie stands out against the setting sky, the fading rays of the sun illuminating the frog eyes on your fuzzy hood.
You sigh, low and resigned and somehow still overflowing with love.
“I’m the chameleon.”