A/N: This is a five part story that centers around JJ and Hotch during season three. Specifically, the episodes Penelope, Birthright and Lo-Fi, the season three finale.
The title for this story comes from the Erin McCarley song "Pitter Pat" and the lyrics that are posted at the beginning of every chapter come from that particular song as well.
We Can't Erase It
Part One of Five
I've lost my sense of right and wrong
- Erin McCarley
Her small hands were still shaking as she made her way up the familiar winding staircase, that lead to her office, underneath heavy legs.
Her stomach was no longer as still as it had been nearly five minutes before. Her insides were tumbling, spinning around and her heart was thundering inside her chest - so loud she was surprised no one else heard it.
Her head was swimming . . . Replaying the scene over and over again. Her body was shuddering as the sound of the three inch thick protective glass shattered inside her ears. Her lips trembled as the last moment played out . . . Battle's body slumping to the floor of the bull pen, landing in a heap with a dull thud.
Her throat was tight - filling up with bile - and she could feel her face go flaxen as she swayed on her feet.
Her knees were giving way and any second, she'd be on the floor, overwhelmed completely by the fact that she had killed someone.
But before she could fall, a pair of strong arms held her up and instead of landing on the grey carpet, she fell back against a solid chest.
Her voice sounded rough and thick to her own ears, so unfamiliar to her, as she murmured, "Hotch?"
He would have stayed in the interview room inside the bullpen with Garcia, doing what Dave liked to joke was his "Dad routine," but she had Morgan who had all but tackled everyone that was in his way to get to her.
He knew the flamboyant tech would be fine with him by her side. So he focused on the other blonde in the room - the smaller, unassuming one - who he could tell was just barely hanging on, still obviously in shock from having killed someone.
He could see her doe blue eyes glazing over, her small hands - normally as still and steady as anyone's (save for Reid's) shaking and her usual strong, yet musical vibrato barely resonated in the room, as she murmured, "I have to go upstairs."
His decision was made long before Morgan stormed into the room - he wasn't going to focus on Garcia - he was already focused on JJ. His feet easily carried him from the room and up the stairs, trailing three or four steps behind her. His eyes stayed trained on her . . . Watching her body's reactions, seeing her small frame sway, her knees buckling and as if he was closing in on an UnSub, he was by her side in seconds.
Catching her, just before she could hit the grey carpet.
She murmured his name, "Hotch," with a questioning air as her oceanic depths - still glazed over - met his dark eyes.
"Come on," He said, keeping his voice low as he helped her to her feet. "Let's get you on your feet."
The heavy feeling that had fogged over her brain since the moment she had seen Battle's limp body slump to the floor, was slowly dissipating.
She had something else to focus on, the heady, masculine scent that surrounded her. The warmth of the solid body she was sliding against as she rose to her feet. The strength inside the arms that were guiding her toward his office.
She bit her lip, mentally chastising herself, but she couldn't help it.
Focusing on her boss in ways she only allowed herself to do in her dreams was easier than reliving the sickness that came with knowing she had ended another human being's life.
Her entire body felt cold, the moment he let go of her and shut the door to his office. Her hands shook at her sides, wanting to reach for him. Her lips trembled and she could feel her stomach tumbling inside of her, as a heavy breath escaped her throat, despite its tightness.
Her eyes locked on his - those deep, dark eyes - normally so intense, she found herself unable to breathe properly underneath them; now they were soft, more brown than black in the soft golden glow of the city's lights that found their way into his office.
Her heart was pounding as she whispered, the only thing her brain could think of at this moment, "Do you remember what it was like when you killed someone for the first time?"
The profiler in him - the decorated agent in him - knew she would go there. That if she spoke at all, that would be the question she would ask.
He had honestly lost count of all the suspects and UnSubs he had shot up to this point. He wasn't even sure how many he had actually killed on sight or how many had died in route to a hospital or during surgery.
But he remembered - he couldn't forget - the first time he killed someone.
He swallows hard, his eyes drifting away from hers for a moment. He doesn't meet her eyes again, he lets his linger on her body, his years of training able to see the small tremors that are wracking her tiny frame.
He knows he shouldn't - that she'll most likely turn away if he does - but he moves closer and extends his hand to her shoulder, melding his palm against the curve underneath her tight fitting maroon long sleeved top. He's surprised, when she doesn't turn away, but moves closer, turning her body so she's nearly pressed against him.
He sees her eyes glaze over, the beginnings of tears are evident, and he feels an ache settling deep inside him. An ache to touch her, to comfort her the way he knows Morgan is doing with Garcia, but he isn't Morgan and she's not Garcia.
So he settles for touching her shoulder and waiting for her to say something or move away.
She does neither. Instead she moves closer, the softness of her body brushing against his, as she turns fully in his direction, so she's now pressed against him.
He knows what he should do - he should push her away, he should handle this situation like he would if she were Prentiss or Reid or Morgan, but she isn't one of them.
She's JJ and that simple fact - that she is who she is - changes everything. Because while he could play stoic Unit Chief with the others - giving them the hard line of take the next few days off and that's an order - he can't do that with her.
So when she rises to her feet, the sweet, feminine smell of cherry blossoms invading his senses, he breathes out her name, "JJ," as his hand leaves her shoulder and cups the back of her head, his fingers threading through silky golden locks, and he lets her lips touch his.
This is wrong. This is so wrong. The voice in her head tells her over and over again.
But the moment her lips touch his, the voice all but disappears from her head.
Everything disappears as the kiss deepens, his lips sliding expertly against hers. Her mouth opens underneath his, allowing his tongue access while her hands roam up and down his back before they settle amongst the thickness of his jet black hair.
Her chest is tight, her heart constricting with every erratic beat. Her head is swimming from the lack of oxygen and there's a dull, smoldering ache that's settled in the pit of her stomach, that is only growing with each sweep of his tongue and movement of his lips.
Her eyes are glazed over, when he breaks the kiss and she thinks the ache will disappear, that it will subside now that he's stopped kissing her. That his hand is no longer inside her hair and his other is slowly moving away from the small of her back.
But she's wrong.
The ache intensifies as she takes him in. Those dark eyes of his are made darker by the want she can she swirling amongst their irises. The solidness of his chest is rising and falling, as heavy pants escape his lips, the warmth of them hitting her face.
She can feel her lip being taken in by her teeth and she bites down, nibbling the skin, as she fights the urge inside of her to walk away.
She knows she should walk away. That walking away is the right thing to do. But she can't.
She can't walk away with just a taste of his lips. With only the fleeting knowledge of how he kisses.
She just can't.
