"FUCKING SHIT!"

It was obvious that Emily was awake now. Hotch sighed. As awful as he himself was feeling right now, he knew that waking up in her superior's bed was far worse for her - especially when naked and lacking any memory the night before - why else would she have cursed like that?. There was no doubt she knew where she was, either, as there were a few framed photos of Hotch and Jack on the nightstand.


Although he would never admit it (especially not to her!), Hotch had fantasized about Prentiss a lot! In his mind, they had had sex in every imaginable position - hell, even on every imaginable item of furniture! But they had always been sober and consent. He always made sure she wanted it, wanted him, before they slept together. Hotch tried not to think of how ironic it was that he was always being a gentleman in his masturbation fantasies, but apparently an asshole in real life. He felt guilty. Above all, he felt guilty for not having been sober enough to prevent whatever had happened the previous night. But then there was this low voice in his head telling him he only regretted not remembering it. And the kind of guilt this little voice caused was even worse, because Hotch wasn't sure whether the voice was lying after all... Hotch shook his head vigorously, then stopped mid movement. As if headshaking could put the voice to silence! He sighed.

Oh dammit! He didn't know what to think, didn't know what to do, didn't know what to feel. When he heard Emily approaching, though, Hotch was prepared. Prepared for being yelled at, prepared for being insulted, even prepared for being attacked. The only thing he was not at all prepared for was seeing Emily Prentiss standing in his kitchen, closer to tears than he had ever witnessed, desperately clinging to the bed sheet covering her naked body. "What happened last night, Hotch?" Emily whispered, her voice scarcely audible; full of defeat and shame. Hell! She couldn't even look at him!

That was when Hotch made a decision. A stupid, impulsive decision. "I don't know what you did, but I slept on the couch this night." The words were out before even realized what he was doing, but the relieved look in her face determined that there was no way back. He couldn't just say "I fooled you. We had sex, but I left and picked the condoms and my clothes off the floor so you wouldn't freak out" now! Hotch sighed, allowing his gaze to wander over her barely-clad, perfect body for one last time. Realizing how indecent the look in his face probably seemed, he playfully added: "So you sleep naked, huh?"

Hotch smirked, well aware that this was the closest to flirting with her that he could ever allow. This smirk was harmless, especially when compared to the alternative of Emily waking up next to him, a used condom lying on the floor among their clothes. Emily would interpret his behavior as one of the rare indicators of him being only a man, after all. Neither the smirk nor the remark would ruin the friendship they had established, and neither of them would destroy her.

The whole situation would probably make her feel a little awkward, though, so she'd immediately head back to the bedroom to get dressed. After a few minutes (spent trying to pull herself together), she would return to the kitchen and apologize for what she had implied, and he would apologize for his remark. They'd be sitting in his kitchen drinking coffee and - depending on the look on her face - Hotch might need to reassure her that nothing had happened between the two of them; that Emily must have decided it was too warm to sleep in her clothes and therefore tossed them on the floor before she had fallen asleep in his bed. Eventually, she would believe him - because she trusted him, and because she didn't think he was capable of lying to her about something severe like an alcohol-related one-night stand.

However, he would have to live with the truth, would have to live with the knowledge that he had kissed her, touched her, loved her... and that he had betrayed her. But he knew this was the price for Emily still being able to look at him, still being able to look into the mirror without hating her reflection, without blaming herself for what had actually been the alcohol's fault.

And to him, this seemed like a fair trade.


"I do myself a greater injury in lying than I do him of whom I tell a lie."

Michel de Montaigne