Part Four
There's nothing unique about their night. Beyond the little English flags that remind her she doesn't live here, and Garcia's not-so-subtle attempts to get her to spend most of her evening with Hotch, the evening is exactly like it had always been.
Morgan dances with every woman, including JJ, Garcia and Blake. He even drags her out onto the floor. Reid takes comfort in his statistics, manages to find another group of nerds from one of the nearby universities. JJ talks of Henry, of how big he is getting, of Will and their relationship – marriage, God – and how she keeps dreaming of the day Henry'll go off to college. They all take turns teasing her on that one.
Blake spends most of her night next to Emily, laughing and listening to the stories, epic and embarrassing. Emily forgets that they haven't known each other forever. Still, Emily has to admit it's a little strange to listen to stories about a time that she hadn't been employed by the FBI. Apparently she's still adjusting. Dave, who had greeted her with open arms and compliments, bought more rounds than she could count. He keeps looking at her like he knows something she didn't. She refuses to acknowledge the look.
And Hotch. Well, Hotch is different. It isn't noticeable, she doesn't think. It's little things, like the way he touches her, how often he touches her, a hand on her arm, her shoulder, the bottom of her back. It's not something she's actively taken notice of, but the way that Garcia, Morgan and Dave watch them, she thinks maybe she should be. That maybe there is something abnormal about it, despite how good it feels. Then she starts paying attention.
Then she realizes it's not normal.
It's not that he has never touched her. She can think of a number of different occasions where he'd brushed a hand down her arm or her back. It's the frequency that catches her attention, once she clues into it. He leans into her too, like he can't hear her though she knows that isn't close to the truth. The bar's not that loud, for one thing, and the way he boxes her in against the bar, his heat against her back definitely catches her attention. So does the way his arm snakes around her waist when the bartender hands her his number.
So when, embarrassed, admits he needs to return to the BAU for some files, she thinks it must be that hyperawareness of his touch that has her volunteering to go with him.
They walk those same halls again. Abe checks her ID, gives them both this disapproving look for being in the office so late. She remembers the days he'd complain about the hours, the commute, his wife and finds she misses them. Yet there's a strange leaden feeling that settles in her stomach as their steps echo across the lobby. It's home, yet she feels like she doesn't belong. She knows why she'd escaped to England, knows it's all about the heartache and the lack of control, a constant state of fear and –
Wait.
She had not escaped. She'd taken an awesome job opportunity. Hadn't she? She'd left for good reasons she just can't quite put into words, a suffocating feeling she hadn't been able to get rid of. They'd all looked at her differently, Morgan, Garcia and God, Reid. They looked at her like she wasn't the same, like they didn't know her. Like she wasn't a sister or a confidante or a friend. Like she wasn't someone they could count on anymore. They looked at her as if she was a foreign agent, a spy.
Until the end. Until she'd decided that enough was enough and she had to go, regardless of the fact that it apparently hadn't been an entirely conscious decision. She knows that the Doyle thing messed with them, that it was an atomic bomb she just dropped on their heads, but it doesn't change how much it hurt. It wasn't like she'd expected Doyle to escape. It wasn't like she'd ever anticipated him trying to hunt her down, to put them in danger. She finds herself wondering in an abstract way if they'll treat JJ the same now when the secrets they'd kept had almost ended in both of them dead.
She thinks she might be a little bitter.
And maybe it's that exact thought that pushes her to lean into Hotch's back as he unlocks his door, to whisper in her lowest, hottest voice that maybe, just maybe, he should leave his files in his desk drawer and just do her instead. It must be enough, because he spins her through the door and slams her up against it. She's pretty sure he wants her just as much as she wants him. And then he lifts her leg and presses against her just right and she knows.
There's no looking back now.