She caught him ten days after the Cyrus case. He'd been on his bench for nearly an hour, just sitting there, not feeling the light rain as it poured down the back of his neck. His ball cap was soaked, his clothes were soaked. But he didn't care, all that mattered to him was that she wasn't where she was supposed to be.
He pulled the cap off his head, used his forearm to wipe the cool rain off his forehead. October rains were notoriously cold. He shivered, but didn't move to stand. He wasn't going anywhere. Not until he knew she was back where she belonged.
"Hotch?" A soft voice said, filled with surprise, from behind him. "What are you doing here?"
He spun to see the object of his obsession standing behind him. She was dressed in jeans, just regular, plain old Levi's. It surprised him that she even owned a pair. "Prentiss."
"What's wrong, is there a case?" Worry tinged her tone and she unconsciously stepped closer. Only her umbrella stopped them from possibly touching. He cursed that umbrella.
"Uh, no. I was just…" He straightened, stood to face her fully. "I couldn't sleep so I went for a walk. Ended up here."
"Outside my apartment? I didn't realize you lived that close." He heard no nerves in her words. Just basic surprise. She didn't know, didn't realize he'd been sitting outside her apartment nearly every night for the past three months. Didn't know he'd watched her so closely, for so long.
"I moved into a place about seven blocks from here. Eight months ago. After I signed the divorce papers." He told her, moving just a bit closer. She wore a tight sweater, under a dark windbreaker. He could vaguely see just a shadow of cleavage in the street light. He wondered if she realized how good she looked, all casual, walking in the rain. "What are you doing out so late?"
"Late? Oh. Volunteer work. A local children's home has a Halloween get together every year. I was drafted to help with face painting." She held up a hand, showing him the variety of paint stains on her delicate fingers. "I stayed to help clean up."
"You really shouldn't stay out this late. Or at least take a cab." He chided, wondering briefly if she realized his words were more those of a lover than a supervisor.
"Don't worry. I have my weapon. And I stay to well lit paths, sir." She smiled. "Would you like to come in? I can offer some dry clothes and some hot chocolate. Or Decaff coffee if you'd prefer."
She liked chocolate. Loved it. That's what she'd said in Golconda. He bet she'd taste like chocolate, too. Probably had had some at that party she'd been at. He wanted to find out. "I'd like that. If it's not too much trouble. We do have to work tomorrow."
"It's no trouble. I'm wired. Probably be up for a while anyway. And you need to get warm. We can't afford for you to get sick." She led him up the stairs, to the door to her apartment. He followed obediently.
His stomach was tight in anticipation. He'd been to her place before, but never had she led him in. and it hadn't been for a personal reason that time. But this was different. She was letting him in to her home like she hadn't that damned CIA spook. The Morgan had never been inside. Just him.
That thought turned him on, had him harder than steel. He just hoped his sweats covered that fact, though he knew the soaked cotton probably didn't.
But she didn't seem to be aware, so he breathed a little easier.
"There's a bathroom under the stairs, I'll run up and see if there's any spare clothes in the guest room. I think Morgan left some things here last week."
"Morgan stayed here?" His voice came out husky and she looked at him, puzzled. He covered quickly, coughing into one fist.
"After New York, the shooting of that kid. It was either him or Penelope. And as much as I love her, I hate to be fussed over. And I don't think he wanted to be alone, either." She motioned to the bathroom and he obediently started in that direction. As he closed the door he heard her soft footfalls on the steps. He wondered why he hadn't realized Morgan had been there. Probably because of his own situation after that case. But apparently the other man had slept in the guest room. Not in her room. Not with her.
He was satisfied with that.
She returned quickly, knocked softly on the bathroom door. He opened it a crack, not caring that his chest was showing. He was in good shape, and had nothing to be ashamed about. He smiled when her eyes dropped from his face to his chest. He didn't miss the slight red tinge on her cheeks as she quickly looked away.
It was the first sign he'd had that she wasn't immune to him. He took it as all the permission he needed. She was aware of him, it was time she became aware of how he was feeling about her. "Thank you, Emily."
"No problem. You want coffee or cocoa?" She asked, looking determinedly away from him. He smiled inwardly, the profiler in him seeing her sudden nerves for what they were.
He wasn't leaving this apartment until she knew of his changing interest. Damn their careers, the BAU, and everyone in it. This was him and her. And he was tired of always watching her, but never getting to be with her.
"Cocoa's fine. If that's what you're having." He knew it was. Just knew that's what she was making for herself. What he suspected she made for herself on a nightly basis.
"Marshmallows?"
"Of course." He told her. "Aren't they a requisite of hot chocolate?"
She smiled, and he closed the bathroom door. he needed a few minutes to strategize.
He was going to have her by the time he walked out of this condo in the morning. Hotch wasn't going anywhere, unless it was upstairs to her bed.
HOTCHTHELOVER
He handed her his clothes, neatly folded, though soaking wet. She placed them in the dryer while he took the hand towel she'd given him and wiped up his tracks from her gleaming floors. Her apartment confirmed his suspicion of OCD. He watched as she bent over, opening the driver door. She really had a trim body, and he admitted to himself that was sexy as hell. And jeans did wonderful things for her.
"Chocolate's on the counter." She told him, and he occupied his hands with the warm mug instead of the warm woman he wanted.
"Thanks. For the clothes, too." He told her. The clothes had ATF printed on the front, and down one leg, proving they were, in fact, Morgan's.
"You're welcome." She moved to take the free barstool beside him, then sipped from her own mug. "So why were you unable to sleep?"
"Hmm?" He didn't want to talk about himself, what he wanted to do was taste that drop of chocolate clinging to her lips. he moved a bit closer. "Insomnia. Cases. Jack."
"I understand. Nightmares are a bitch, aren't they?" She looked away, then.
"Yes. You been having them?" He casually dropped one hand to cover hers where it rested on the counter.
"Some. Nothing I can't deal with." She always had to be so strong, he knew that. But she didn't pull her hand back.
"I know." Hotch pulled her hand closer, squeezed, tucked it against his hip. He didn't miss the surprise in her dark eyes. But he didn't let her hand go. Not even when she pulled on it just a bit. He held tight. He was enjoying the feel of the small, soft hand in his grasp.
"Hotch?"
"Hmm? Is everything ok?" Her eyes had narrowed on his face, and he wondered if what he felt was written in his own expression. "You seem different. Intent on something."
"Am I?" He murmured, then took another sip of his hot cocoa. "How so?"
"I don't know. Just different. More intense, determined. Like you're hunting something, someone."
"Who?" He narrowed his eyes on her face, her lips. he watched, satisfied as she wetted them quickly. The move was unconscious, and he knew that on some level, she was aware of what he was wanting from her.
She didn't move away. He took that as a good sign. "I don't know. It's…disconcerting."
"Frightening?" He lowered his voice, as he moved closer, slipping off the barstool to stand right next to her. He was violently pleased to feel her body tense as he moved ever closer. "I'm not scaring you, am I?"
"I don't know. Maybe a little." She admitted, and he was once again struck by how she was always honest, almost to a fault, with him. He knew she valued the truth above all else. He had to respect that.
"I won't apologize." He told her, hand finally releasing hers. He moved both hands to rest beside her thighs, to grip the edge of her seat, trapping her before him. "Would it frighten you to know I've been thinking about you a lot lately?"
"Depends." Her voice came out husky, sexy, and he narrowed his eyes even more. He looked into her darker ones, searching for an indication of how she was feeling. Heat warred with a touch of fear, of caution. He'd soon erase that from her mind. "How have you been thinking of me?"
"How do you think a man thinks about a woman like you?" He countered her question with one of his own, as he stepped forward, leaning into her. "I've watched you for a while now, you know. I've seen you with Morgan, with Rossi, even with Reid. You touch them, you know. Casual, careless little touches. I can't help but wonder why you don't touch me like that."
"I, uh, didn't think you'd want me to." Her words came out broken, she leaned back a bit. He spun her barstool quickly, putting the back of it to the island behind her. He didn't want her chair tipping dangerously when he leaned in for what he wanted. "You never went out of your way to prove otherwise."
This was not what he'd planned while in her bathroom changing into another man's clothes. This was moving much quicker than he'd strategized. He couldn't help but be glad. Hotch was, at heart, a very impatient man. "Oh, I want it, Emily. Have wanted it for months, now. Let me prove it."
(Wow, Hotch is being NAUT-TAY. One more chapter to go—I think—and I'll give you one guess as to what they do……..)
