Still super spiteful
He found her in the laundry room, sitting amidst a pile of freshly laundered clothing; the sweet scent of detergent and softener pleasing to his nose almost as much as the sight of her sitting there did. She was dressed in an oversized shit – his shirt, and as he glanced down over her shoulder, he realized there was little else on her body. He smiled at her back, affection and amusement warm in his chest as she hummed and sang to herself.
She couldn't hear him over the dryer.
It was a particularly loud dryer, but Hotch would never admit out loud that the noise had been a factor he'd considered when buying the machine. You see, the house in DuPont Circle (which oddly enough, the team had failed to recognize as his neighborhood) that Emily had purchased, was in fact, their purchase. Things had happened since her return; some things happened even during it, but when Emily was back home, safe and sound, Hotch really wasted no more time in lifting her into his arms and loving her like he'd die without her.
It was a rocky start; safe or otherwise, Emily was still much attuned to her primal instincts of hiding and running. It took months of gentle reassurance, long nights of (slow, amazing) love making, and perhaps a trip or two to her therapist, but they'd come out even stronger.
He loved her too much to have her disappear inside herself again.
Presently he was dressed in his slacks and socks, but not much else above the waist. Emily had more than expressed her delight in his new health regime; his blood pressure had lowered significantly, and that had much to do with the woman in bed next to him every night. He was stronger, fitter, and healthier – and though he'd never admit it – sexier.
He could trust himself to protect Emily now.
A soft, melodic humming pulled him from his thoughts, the familiar tune of an old movie they'd cuddled up to the night before. If his mental library recalled, it was a Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn oldie; Charade it was called. She was humming the theme song in an almost dreamy countenance.
He could stand there and watch her for hours, but he was getting cold, and with a glance to his watch – late for a budget meeting.
"Sweetheart?"
Hotch stepped back as Emily let out a small scream, her body jolting off the floor and scattering the clothes in her lap as she spun quickly to face him. Her eyes were wide on her face, lips parted in startled breaths as she stared up at him for a moment before her face morphed into an irritated glare. "Quit sneaking up on people!" she exclaimed, tossing a handful of fresh laundry at him in reproach. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she pressed a hand to it in hopes of calming herself before she died in a pile of his shirts and underwear.
And then she realized something was off.
"Why aren't you dressed?"
Her fear didn't stop her from staring at his bare chest – the muscular plane of delicious definition and strength that seemed to only exaggerate further, the powerful air around him. It had taken a while for them both to be comfortable enough to see each other naked; there were scars on their bodies that they never wanted anyone else to see. But in time, they began to trust themselves, because it had never been the issue of trusting one another, no. It was always about trusting themselves, of letting go of their pasts and moving on in their lives.
It was always about defeating their demons.
And look how far they'd come; the two most private people, who played their cards so close to their chest. Because of what they do, of what they see, it was like finding love in a hopeless place.
And he was never letting her go.
The man chuckled quietly as he bent to his knees and crawled to her, dropping the laundry back in her lap and stealing her lips in a breathtaking kiss. "I'm sorry," he murmured against her mouth, mostly rumbling the words through his chest as he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her to him. She obliged him eagerly, climbing into his lap where she settled as if she was a puzzle piece to his body, purring contentedly in her throat as she cupped his face in her hands.
"You couldn't hear me over the dryer," he told her, and they shared a sly, wicked grin together. Jack had been dropped off at school, though the boy had gone with heavy feet. He loved Emily dearly, clung to her so tight it was painful. When she came home, the boy had thrown himself at her and hugged her tight, begging her to never go away again. There were many tears shed that night, but in its place now were days and nights and hours of joyous, happy laughter.
She gave him a suggestive, feline smirk, arching an eyebrow at the slow, devilish smirk that graced his handsome face. The warm coil in her stomach clenched tighter and spread further south, but she shook her head at him and shoved at his face, picking up another shirt to fold. "You're going to be late."
Hotch huffed petulantly, mouth tingling in abandonment as he straightened up, still on his knees. "That's why I was looking for you; none of my shirts are back from the dry cleaners. I was looking for a spare," he grumbled, sliding his hand into her lap and rummaging through the shirts for a spare dress shirt.
"Oh, hello."
"Aaron!" Emily yelped, jumping away from his hand as she clamped her thighs shut and slapped him across the chest. Her cheeks burned a flushed flamingo pink as she gaped at him in disbelief, slapping him across the chest once again as the man did nothing but give her an unapologetic grin. "That is so not cool!" God, it was hard enough not to shove him against the washer and fuck his brains out as it was! She was definitely wearing shorts to bed next time! "You'd better put a shirt on and get going, or you'll never make it out of this house."
He waggled his eyebrows at her. "I have five minutes. The washer's on its spin cycle. I could make it worth your while."
Emily rolled her eyes, smirking out of the corner of her mouth despite the blush still high on her cheeks. "Now you're just being cocky," she quipped, pulling out a shirt for him and tossing it his way. Really though – with the amount of time he spent walking around half naked in the mornings, looking for his shirts, it was a wonder how they made it to work on time.
The man shrugged innocently, flinching as the sharp whip of a shirt came lashing across his chest. He laughed as he bundled the cloth to his chest, "alright, alright." He straightened out the shirt he held in his hands, inspecting the garment carefully. Hotch frowned slightly as he stared at the shirt for a moment…something was off about it, but he couldn't place what. It looked the same, felt the same, smelt deliciously fresh….
Oh.
"Em, did you put this in the dryer?"
She turned to him, batting her eyelashes innocently. "Was I not supposed to?" she asked him naïvely, smiling beatifically at the man as he frowned at her suspiciously.
"It shrank."
"Did it?" she hummed, calmly folding the rest of his clothes. "But I put the rest of your shirts in the dryer too, and they fit you perfectly." She turned to him with a sweet smile, cooing at the glare on his face. "Aw, babe," Emily crooned at him, reaching up to cup his face and kiss him gently. "I'm sorry, Aaron. I really didn't know." She pouted against his neck, kissing his jawline as she hugged him tight and sighed into his skin.
"It can still fit though, can't it?" she asked him, eyes darting to his face nervously.
Hotch held back a sigh, staring down at her anxious face and her lip-gnawing before regarding the shirt his hand. It was smaller than he was used to; most of his clothes were somewhat baggy now, but it would fit him still. It'd just be a little…tight. It wasn't as if he had much of a choice now – he'll just have to make a note to get more shirts over the weekend. Jack's been growing out of his clothes too, so maybe it could be a fun weekend for the three of them.
He huffed. "It's fine," he said finally, stroking her shoulder and arm as she pouted up at him still. "Really, sweetheart, it's fine." He kissed the pout away and stood, bringing her with him. They stood amidst the laundry and the chugging machines, Emily watching in rapt attention as he reached over his head and slid the shirt over his body. The shirt fit snugly around his chest and biceps, accentuating the muscular tone of his body before it tapered to his narrow waist.
The man watched with a suspicious amusement as Emily licked her lips, her eyes just south of his neck. "Does it look alright?" he asked her, doing a slow spin about to be sure there wasn't any skin showing where there shouldn't be.
"Mmhmm," Emily nodded her head immediately, smiling out of the corner of her mouth as she stepped up to him. She pressed her hands against his chest, standing on her tiptoes as he bent his head down and dropped his forehead to hers, noses grazing. They shared a secretive, shy grin as she leaned up for a kiss, humming in delight into his mouth as he gripped her arms and plundered harder. The tension and the heat was getting overwhelming to them, and Emily's head began to spin as his tongue snaked out to brush against hers.
She moaned through her nose, reveling in the spicy scent of his aftershave and him as he began to back her into the washing machine and lifted her onto the rapidly vibrating machine.
Well, needless to say, Hotch was late for his budget meeting. Very, very late.
"Hey, Hotch?"
"Yes, Reid?"
"Don't take this the wrong way, sir, but…your shirts have been awfully ah…snug lately. It's – it's – it's not a bad snug, but ah – I was just wondering why. Sir."
Hotch cast a mild glare in Emily's direction, where the woman sat and seemed blissfully ignorant of the question, but the twitching of her mouth told him otherwise. He'd been stared at by every agent in the office, AND everyone at the Quad. He'd even caught Strauss giving him surreptitious glances as he walked down the walkway.
She had done this on purpose.
"It was a laundry mix-up," he growled. "Now be quiet and read your book, Spencer."