Hotch squeezes her hand and lets her go, and is surprised at the gut-punch he feels in doing so. He's sent her away to save her life, but now, the very act of letting go of her hand - of letting her go, his mind chides him - feels like a gargantuan task. He can still feel her skin on his, and his warmth radiates up her bare arm. She clears her throat, and resumes chopping scallions.
"So," he says, maneuvering the conversation back to safer territory for now. "What're you intending to feed me?"
"I hit the Farmer's Market this afternoon," she remarks. She'd needed to stretch her legs. She had been feeling antsy under the weight of her decision more than she had felt hungover after the wedding. "So I grabbed a Spring mix, some radishes, carrots, heirloom tomatoes…"
He regards her speculatively. "You're feeding me salad?"
Emily rolls her eyes. "Stop being such a man. I got meat and potatoes for you too." Deftly, she reaches over and fires up the gas on her range. With a whoosh and a hiss, fire lights under a grill pan she's laid across two burners. He watches as she brushes some oil on the grill, and strips the packaging from a quartet of smoked sausages.
He glances at the discarded label. "Chardonnay and apple smoked sausage?"
"Aaron Hotchner," she scolds, and he tries to remember the last time she said his first name.
Last night, as they danced. Beth had taken a sleepy Jack and Henry to Garcia's for a sleepover. She was uncomfortable around Team BAU, Hotch knew. He knew she felt like an outsider. After a flurry of hugs and kisses and Garcia tipsily digging out her spare keys, Beth had left with the boys. Kevin and his date had left, JJ's mom had begged off for some sleep, leaving just the BAU team and Strauss.
The caterers were cleaning up, and the night had turned cooler, but the music played on, and like any good Rossi party, there was plenty of wine. So they stayed, and they drank - except for Erin - and they danced. There was such joy, such peace among their strange, wonderful, growing family. Morgan and Garcia, soulmates in a strange, cosmic, wonderful way; the newlyweds, Will and JJ, happy and relieved, healthy, safe in each other's arms; Reid, growing older, wiser than all of them and still so gloriously naive in ways that went beyond endearing; Rossi, friend, mentor, father-figure to some, their host, as he danced with their Section Chief, a longtime friend. Hotch had found himself dancing with Prentiss again.
He wasn't familiar with the song, but it was haunting and simple, elegant, and beautiful. The BAU team was all varying degrees of tipsy or drunk, and happy. It had been a hell of a few days - a hell of a few years - and they'd all more than earned some peace and happiness, if even for a moment.
Prentiss settled in his arms, and he couldn't help but notice - again - how natural the fit. Her face was flushed from dancing and too much wine. Her feet were bare, her heels long since discarded.
"Are you cold?" he asked softly, his lips along side her ear as they moved.
She shrugged, and closed the centimeters' distance between their bodies. She didn't care about rules, or Strauss, or the myriad of questions she was going to get from everyone later. A chapter of her life was coming to an end, and she wanted to wring everything she could from it. "I'm fine, Aaron," she murmured in reply.
Her low voice saying his name sent chills across his skin and down his spine, and he held her more tightly.
"Do you really think I'm trying to poison you?" Emily asks with a laugh, tossing the meat on the grill.
Pulled from his reverie, he keeps his face neutral - he hopes - and simply says, "I've just never seen these before."
"Prepare to be dazzled," she chides. "They're amazing."
Another pan, more oil, more heat. She tumbles in a full package of gnocchi.
He can't help himself. "Aren't you supposed to boil those?"
"Hotch!" she cries, exasperated.
He holds his hands up, placating and apologetic. She rewards him with a smile, then gestures with the knife to her balcony and the table and chairs she has out there. "Set the table, will you?" She directs him to all the places in her kitchen he can find what he needs.
He busies himself with plates, forks, knives, wine and water glasses. The merlot they've been drinking as she cooks is nearly gone. "What do you want with dinner?" He thinks of the dubious sausages. "Chardonnay?"
"Pinot grigio," she replies as she shakes a small mason jar vigorously. Good God, she's even making the salad dressing. He stops the words "you really can cook," on the tip of his tongue, and fetches the wine.
Within ten minutes, she's bringing things out to the balcony, setting them on a side table from which they can serve themselves. She turns toward him, and sees that's he's holding her chair for her. Always the consummate gentleman, she thinks, sliding into the seat as he pushes the chair in for her.
They serve themselves, her Farmer's Market salad and homemade spicy dressing, grilled meat and fried gnocchi. She watches him, bemused, as he tastes everything she's prepared. She knows him well enough to know he's keeping his face politely neutral. But when he tastes everything, surprise and delight immediately replace his carefully schooled expression.
She nearly snorts with satisfaction, and covers by taking a sip of her wine. "I told you I wasn't going to poison you."
"You have my sincere apologies," he replies as she digs in to her own meal. They eat with gusto and in companionable silence. They are both hungry, and let themselves enjoy the company, the weather; they let the food sop up some of the pre-dinner wine. She wants a relatively clear head when she tells him what she needs to say.
He wants to hear her, clearly, to listen, to be there for her. To be what she needs. He eats the last morsel off his plate. "This is very good. Thank you for dinner." He catches her eye. "We could have gone out, or ordered in, but I suspect you needed to relax before you tell me what's going on."
She sighs and sets down her fork. "Don't profile me, Hotch."
"Emily," he says gently. "I know something's bothering you. It's been bothering you for quite some time." She won't meet his eyes, and for the second time that evening, he takes her hand. "Please."
His voice is soft, almost pleading. His eyes are gentle and understanding, and goddammit, she wishes this could some how be easier. She can see the road of her life in the rear view mirror, the string of mistakes they've made, the could have beens and never weres. She can see her regrets, her sins, her good intentions and wishes all smashed on the ground, broken beyond repair.
He keeps looking at her.
Be honest, even if it hurts.
I will if you will.
She takes a deep breath. "Clyde Easter was promoted, at Interpol. He's now Section Chief of the Western European theater."
Hotch nods, but says nothing. He merely continues watching her, silently. He does not let go of her hand.
"He wants me to take over his position as head of the London office."
His throat slams shut and his stomach drops so far he suspects he'll need an archeological expedition to recover it. He doesn't know if his face stays in the neutral mask he has perfected over the years. He hardly cares. "Have you accepted?"
She wants to look away, since this feels like a betrayal of him, of the team, of everything he did to keep her alive and everything she put them through - but she can't. "I told him I'd think about it."
He sighs, and can't help but sound more than a bit defeated. "I'm sorry you're unhappy here."
"It's so much more complicated than that." Emily all but groans it, pushing back from the table. She needs to stand. She needs to move. "I love the team." You love more than just the team as a whole, she thinks to herself. "I think the work we do is so important, and you are all my family."
"But you want to leave." The words are cautious, almost flat. He stays seated.
She has deja vu, hears her conversation with Derek from before the wedding. She was only half honest with him. She forces herself to be more honest with Hotch. "Ever since I got back, it's been different." She sees on his face that he wants to argue. "You know it's true." The words on the tip of her tongue, clawing to get out, are painful. "I'm different. I've changed."
"You went through a traumatic event," he begins, rising, but his words sound hollow and cliched, even to his ears. She isn't wrong. She's kept herself at a certain distance; often times he's gotten the impression she's going through the motions, a kind of play-acting, moving through the scenes of the life she used to have, trying to remember the steps.
"I died, Hotch." She says the words with finality. "Emily Prentiss died." Lauren Reynolds is dead. "She died."
That she refers to herself in the third person does not go unnoticed.
"They brought you back." He stands apart from her, just out of reach. The profiler in her can't help but notice that. Her fingers itch to touch him, to ground herself and him and them, to feel something, and her rational mind is glad he's far enough away.
"Did they? They got my body working again. They restarted my heart, kept my brain alive." Left me with scars. No, that wasn't quite right - Ian left her with so many scars, only a few of which she can actually see when she looks in the mirror. She is damaged - she always has been, but now the damage is visible. She cannot hide it, not from herself, or from anyone who looks at her.
She thinks of a quote she heard once, during some weekend sci-fi film and tv marathon thing she'd done with Garcia and Reid. "But that's just - organs, synapses. Nature's way of keeping meat fresh."
Hotch sucks in a sharp breath at her words, and the guilt washes over her. She knows she's hurting him. They are very bad at keeping their relationship and feelings on the correct side of the boundary, and very good at hurting each other, and themselves. She looks out, towards the lights of the city, twinkling in the twilight against the nearly-set sun.
"First I was recovering, then I was hiding, just surviving." She laughs bitterly, coldly. "Barely doing either. Certainly not living. I couldn't be Emily - I had three aliases, but none of them were me. Then all of the sudden I was back and we were looking for Declan, and Doyle was dead, finally dead. I hoped that would be enough." She looks back at him and knows he understands.
Of course that he would understand. Her own personal demon, hell personified, died, and it didn't fix nearly as much as she'd hoped. It feels like Doyle had broken something, and even the solace gleaned from the knowledge he was too far beyond her to cause her any more pain did nothing to fix the constant ache.
Hotch understands the feeling well. In his darkest moments, regardless of Jack's connections to the area, he's wondered if it wouldn't have been better if they'd just left, gone somewhere else and started entirely fresh and new. But all his son's memories of Haley are here, and so they'd stayed. Years later, he doesn't regret it, necessarily, but he knows that staying felt like hell at the time.
"The house," he murmurs. "You were hoping roots would help."
She nods wordlessly. Of course he understands her. It's why they've always gotten along, why they formed such a bond. They are alike, Aaron Hotchner and Emily Prentiss. Damaged souls, broken mirrors, trying to do more than simply survive. He has his son, and Beth, and she envies him that he has found a way through the darkness. That he has found light. He deserves it.
"Are you going to accept Easter's offer?"
"I don't know," she replies, and can see the doubt in his eyes. "Honestly, I don't know. I'm tempted. DC - it's too much of a reminder of everything that happened."
"You died in Boston, Emily."
She stops, huffs out a breathless, shocked laugh. "Was that an attempt at a joke?"
He shrugs, and fills both their wine glasses. To hell with sobriety. He'll call a cab. She is leaving, again.
"Hotch." When he turns, she is there, so close to him he can feel the heat of her body radiating from her. "I don't want to leave you. But I can't stay."
I don't want to leave you. She doesn't say "leave the team," or "leave the BAU." Her eyes are big, sad, and full of tears. He can see her pain, can practically touch it. He's never realized, all year, even when she would open up to him, how bad things were for her. How has he not seen?
Maybe he didn't want to, he realizes.
Before he even registers that he is moving, he sets down his wine glass and kisses her. To hell with propriety. He feels and hears her gasp against his mouth and for a second, a split, microscopic second he is terrified that he's entirely misread the situation, misinterpreted what it felt as though their years of friendship were leading to. But then he feels her sigh, and her lips are pliant and willing against his. Her arms come around him, and she grips his shoulder. The nails of her other hand scrape against the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck and chills race down his spine. The sensation is both erotic and addicting. Her body seems to wrap around his, as her breasts press to his chest, hips and waists and torsos melding and combining and he wonders where he stops and her body begins. Their tongues do battle, teeth scrape lips, nipping and teasing. They are Aaron and Emily and this is a moment they have been journeying towards since their first meeting. They are not gentle. They demand.
He cups her head gently in one hand, his other settled firmly at the base of her spine, anchoring her to him. She surrounds him, her hair smelling of jasmine and peonies, her skin of vanilla. She tastes like wine and spices, delicate and bold. She is Emily, and she is in his arms, and the thought Why didn't we do this sooner? pops into his head, unbidden.
She has wanted this for so long. She doesn't know when, exactly, she started wanting him, but she has, for ages. She's cared for him for even longer. She does not let herself entertain thoughts of love. It is too painful, and she has lost too much of herself. But he is Aaron and he is here, and the smell of cherry blossoms wafts up from the street, and his lips and his tongue and his hands are - oh God. Dear sweet Jesus. Thank you. His hands are suddenly everywhere and she feels a fire that she thought long since extinguished.
Then she rips away from him, almost violently. Her chest heaves, her cheeks feel hot. She drags her eyes to meet him, sees he is panting, that his hair is disheveled, his clothing rumpled, his lips redder than normal.
"Hotch…you…Beth…" She cannot help but stammer. She thinks she might be going into shock. Aaron Hotchner, her friend, her boss - another woman's boyfriend - just kissed her like she's never been kissed.
He drags a hand through his hair. "Beth and I broke up last night."
He shared a cab with Garcia, intending to give Jack one last kiss goodnight and get a ride home with Beth. Beth, who he always considered kind, and sweet, sassy and fun. With a gentle soul and affection for his son, on paper she should have been enough to make him happy, but something always felt like it was missing. He never felt any fire, any spark.
He kissed Jack, asleep on Garcia's couch underneath a big blue fleece Doctor Who blanket, and quietly snuck out with Beth. They were halfway to his apartment before she spoke.
"Aaron?"
"Hmm?"
"Did you enjoy yourself tonight?"
He looked at her, nodding. "The wedding went well. It's great that JJ and Will finally get to move into this chapter of their lives."
"They've been together a while, haven't they?" Her eyes never left the road, and her voice sounded strained.
"Five years." He frowned. "Beth, is everything alright?"
She ignored his question. "Dave did a nice job with the wedding. It's amazing he pulled everything together so quickly."
Hotch arched a brow, but responded. "Being a best-selling author has its perks, apparently."
"I never understood the dynamic of your team until tonight," she said, pulling on to his street. "I mean, I met them all at the race, but - you all are such a family."
"We've been together a long time." He kept his voice neutral, letting her lead the conversation.
"And you have to trust each other, because of what you do." She stopped the car in front of his building.
"Implicitly. Our lives are in each other's hands every time we go out on a case. I'm the team leader, but we all look out for one another."
She sighed, and looked at him. "I don't belong in your world, Aaron."
He frowned.
Beth laughed to herself, incredulous. "I can't believe it - I'm actually jealous. I'm jealous of your entire team. And I know it's petty, and illogical, but it's there." She took his hand. "They know you in a way I don't think I ever will. I was prepared - happy, even - to be second fiddle to Jack. He is an amazing little boy, and you love him so much. Of course he should be your first priority." She dropped his hand, leaned across the divider, and placed a chaste kiss on his mouth. "But I wasn't prepared to be the eighth wheel with you and your team. I don't think I can do it."
"This is - you're breaking up with me?" he asked. He felt guilty he didn't feel more upset.
"You are an amazing man, Aaron Hotchner," she told him with a sad smile. "And I think you have an amazing capacity for love. I'm jealous of the woman who will one day be on the receiving end of that love." Her hand came along side his face. "But I think we both know that woman is not me."
Emily blinks, rapidly. Between her nerves, all the wine, the surprise of being kissed, and now his news, she thinks she might be in shock. And drunk. "I'm sorry," she says, wrotely. She can't find any other words.
He shrugs. "We both knew it wasn't right."
A thought occurs to her, and she folds her arms across her chest, one hip cocked. "Did you tell me that to get me to stay?"
He's lying if he says no, if he says he isn't considering the possibility. "I didn't want you to think there was anything - untoward about what just happened." He smirks; he can't help it. "But are you going to?"
Emily sighs, and feels her lips twitching. "No. I don't know." She sighs again, rubbing her hands over her bare arms. The night air is cool. "Help me clear the table."
They bring everything inside in silence, putting away leftovers, putting dishes in the dishwasher. She disappears for a moment, comes back wearing fuzzy socks and a cardigan over her long dress. She gestures to her fireplace. "Can you get that going?"
"Don't want to shut the doors?" he asks, crouching before the hearth.
She is in the kitchen, pouring them both some scotch. "I like the fresh air."
He hasn't lit a fire in years, since he and Haley lived together. Before the divorce, before Foyet and protective custody. Before he was too late, and he couldn't save Haley. He couldn't save Jack's mother. Two and a half years later, he still feels like he failed his son.
He lights a match, and it flares to life in front of his face. Within seconds, the fire roars, and Hotch moves to sit beside her on the couch, a respectable distance between them. She has curled up on the couch, legs tucked underneath her. She hands him his scotch and his fingers brush hers as he accepts. Her skin is soft, and he wants to yank her into his lap. He doesn't.
"I'm sorry that I didn't realize how much pain you were in," he says softly, staring into the flames. He brings the scotch to his lips, holding the woodsy taste in his mouth and relishing the slight burn as it goes down his throat.
"Hotch." Her voice is gentle and he thinks it sounds like the scotch tastes, smooth and deep, but with a biting sharpness. "It's not like everything's been unrelentingly awful since I came back. But I'd be lying if I said I felt like I belonged here."
"You do, though." He turns and looks at her. "You belong with the team." He doesn't go so far as to say she belongs with him - he has never been one to come on that strongly. "I'm not saying you need to do something you're uncomfortable with to protect other people's feelings, but you know the team is going to be hurt if you leave."
"I know. I just feel like this is something I have to do." She throws caution to the wind - they've already kissed - and scoots closer to him. She hooks an arm around his bicep and rests her head on his shoulder. Without either of them thinking about it, their fingers intertwine, like it is the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is. "I'm going to miss you all, so much."
He presses a kiss to the crown of her head, breathing her in. It feels so normal, so right, that they are here on a couch curled up together, bellies full, heads swimming with wine and scotch. The fire is warm, the breeze smells slightly sweet, and he cannot get over just how right she feels pressed against him. Though it means letting go of her hand, he wraps his arm around her shoulders and settles her against his chest.
She feels his heartbeat, and closes her eyes, savoring his warmth and the warmth of the fire. They've crossed a line, but she's leaving. She still doesn't know if London is the right answer for her, but she knows staying in DC is the wrong one. Even though everyone she loves is here. Even though this man is there, this man she's worked with for over five years, with whom she's been through so much; this man who currently is holding her like she's all he wants in the world. She has seen him bleed, seen him almost die, more than once - stabbing, car bomb; the list is longer than it should be. She has seen him comfort the grieving, and then single-handedly take down offenders. She has seen him weep, seen him be reckless. He has lost, and grieved, more than any individual should. But he has come out the other side of it, and is here. With her.
He looks down and notices a healing wound on the back of her neck, exposed by her carelessly upswept hair. He assumes it is an injury she sustained in the blast at the bank. A pang goes through him, sharp and painful, when he thinks about how much he could have lost in that explosion.
Garcia standing before him, eyes wide with tears after the blast. "I can't find Emily." His heart stops.
He thinks about how many times he's almost lost the members of his team, about how many times they've sustained serious injuries. His arms tighten around Emily involuntarily as he thinks about all the battles he's seen her fight and win, paying for those wins with her own blood.
He's listened to her be beaten, as she protected Reid and begged him - she knew he'd be listening - to not rush to her rescue; even though she'd sustained a head injury, broken ribs, internal bruising, and a black eye, all to protect a member of her team and the innocents inside the compound. He's watched her body loaded into an ambulance, a table leg sticking out of her abdomen, blood everywhere, as she laid dying, all for the love of them. He's seen her survive a car accident, altercations with suspects and killers. He's seen her shed far too much blood, but he's seen her survive.
She feels his hold on her tighten and she gently strokes his arm. "Everything alright?"
He brushes his lips lightly over hers. "Just thinking."
"About kissing me again?" Her voice is teasing, but there is an air of trepidation in her tone.
"Do you want me not to?" It almost sounds like a challenge.
"I just don't know if it's a good idea," she replies. They've both been hurt more than enough for one lifetime. "London isn't exactly at the other end of the DC Metro."
"I thought you weren't sure about London, just getting out of DC." He rests his cheek atop her head, his words rumbling through her.
She sits up, looking him in the eye. "What's your point?"
"Emily." Her name crosses his lips like a prayer. "You are a brilliant profiler and former intelligence officer who speaks six languages. DC and London aren't the only two places in the world with law enforcement and intelligence work."
She rolls her eyes. "I'm not exactly angling to run the branch office in Duluth."
"I know some perfectly lovely people in Duluth," he retorts blandly. His hand comes up to cup her cheek, and he watches the firelight dance in her eyes. "What about New York?"
"Are they still looking for someone, after Derek turned them down a million times?" She doesn't know where he's going with this.
"I can ask around, if that's what you want," Hotch replies. Then he smiles slyly. "But I was more thinking of the Interpol office at the UN."
A smile crosses her face before she can stop it. "Aaron Hotchner, you are brilliant!" She kisses him soundly before jumping off the couch and dashing for her phone. She's nearly hit send on the call when she stops. "Wait, how do I even know if there's an opening there?"
"Gideon used to tell Reid to 'see the whole board.'" He rises from the couch and crosses to her, settling his hands on her hips. He lays his lips, whisper soft, against the skin of her neck, moves his way up to under her ear. "You're a chess player. Move the pieces around until you win."
She ponders this, through the haze of arousal and lust that floods her as he kisses her skin. "So, you're saying I should suggest that Easter promote whoever's running the New York office to London, and give me New York."
He smiles against her skin. "There's my girl."
She closes her eyes, revelling in the sensations that course through her. Wherever this version of him has been hiding, she wants to keep him. "Wait." She lays her hands on his shoulders. "New York isn't exactly around the corner either."
"New York is a train ride away," he replies. "I can be there every chance I have."
Her eyes meet his. "But, you have Jack, and…"
"Jack knows you," is his simple reply. "And what seven year old boy wouldn't love a train trip and some time in New York City?" His lips brush across her forehead. "Jessica's got some friends there - I'm sure she'd come, on occassion, so you and I could spend some time together, just the two of us. She's also more than happy to have Jack over whenever."
She cannot believe her luck, or his simple faith that this is something they can do. "Hotch." She blushes, corrects herself. Hotch is her boss. The man currently kissing her palm and nibbling at her wrist is not her boss. "Aaron. We don't even know what this is."
He stops his ministrations, and his forehead comes to rest against hers. "I know that I care about you. I know that I want you to be happy, and I want to be with you, to see where this road leads us." His words are nearly whisper quiet. He takes a deep breath. "Don't you?"
When his eyes meet hers, she sees trepidation in them. She brings her hands up to frame his face. "I am so fucked up…" she begins.
He ticks off on his fingers all the ways in which he is himself fucked up. "Single father; one failed marriage under my belt; multiple stab wound scars; lost some hearing from being blown up in an SUV; spent more than a year not exactly listening to you about taking care of myself, or believing you when you said I wasn't alone..." He grins devilishly at her. He should also add got my ex-wife killed, left my son without a mother, and dated another woman because I thought I couldn't have you, he thinks. "Need I continue? I can keep going."
She makes a show of considering his words, though she knows his jovial tone is a defense mechanism, that everything he just mentioned haunts him frequently. She wonders what his nightmares are like, and finds she has a deep need to soothe them. "You're right - you're some piece of work, Hotchner."
His lips hover millimeters above hers. "Are you sure you want to risk it?"
"Are you sure you do?" She kisses him, because he's there, and because she can. "Are you sure we can pull this off?"
"Call Easter," he orders, affecting his best "Hotch" voice. "And we'll go from there."