Perhaps they were right in putting love into books... Perhaps it could not live anywhere else.
--William Faulkner
Cooking. Now that was scarier than most of the unsubs they came across.
Truthfully, she had never really learned to cook. As a diplomat's child, she had been fed by a family-employed cook throughout her childhood, and her schedule at the BAU was so erratic that she relied on takeout and food that didn't need preparation, like fruit. The kitchen was an area that she did not venture into very often because she knew that the results would be disastrous.
But she knew that Hotch had grown up in the South and was probably used to three home-cooked squares a day, especially after all of his years of marriage to Haley. He needed to get his strength back, too, after surgery and a week of hospital food, and the best way to do that was by eating wholesome, healthy meals. Which she had no idea how to prepare.
Cereal it is.
The fact of the matter was that she was simply not used to living with another person and taking care of them. She herself had been looked after carefully, albeit not parentally, for the first eighteen years of her life. After college and her years of law enforcement, she was used to providing for herself, but only herself. She mothered her younger teammates, but she certainly didn't provide for their every need. And this was Hotch – a man who prided himself on being independent and was not exactly thrilled to need help, not matter what his feelings for her were. Adding the complexity of the emotions between them only complicated things further. Hell, there mere sight of him sleeping next to her had made her cry. She wasn't sure that she could handle two weeks of living in that environment. If the shit hit the fan, it could damage things between them forever.
He had just staggered into the kitchen, though, so she had to get it together. "Good morning. Do you want some coffee?" Coffee, at least, she could make. That particular skill was pretty much required for BAU agents.
Accepting the proffered mug, he sat at the table, where she had put out the cereal boxes from the pantry. "Thanks. How did you sleep?" he asked, his voice still husky from waking up. His hair was rumpled, too, and it was possibly turning her on just the tiniest bit to see him like that. Maybe.
"Fine," she lied, retrieving the milk from the refrigerator. "No more nightmares, so that's something, at least. Is cereal okay with you? I can make something, if you like." Please, please, no.
"No, no, this is good. Sit down. Please."
She complied, but only after filling his bowl halfway with milk so he would only have to pour in the cereal, which he could do one-handed. That earned her a slight frown, but he let it go, apparently not in the mood to be belligerent quite so soon.
There was a half-hearted attempt at conversation on his part, but neither of them was really up for it. Inexplicably, she felt nervous, jumpy. Her palms were sweating, and she wiped them on her jeans, the stickiness rubbing uncomfortably past the denim. It felt horribly like his blood had on her hands, and she stopped quickly, not wanting to be reminded of that. Breakfast didn't last long, thankfully, and she only managed to choke down a banana, her nerves getting the better of her appetite. He wanted to help her clear the table, but she waved him off, telling him that she had it. There was rather a lot of venom in his look after that, but again, he didn't comment on it and went upstairs to shower.
Once he was gone, she relaxed a bit. Cleaning was something she could do, and as a neatnik with something of an obsessive-compulsive streak, she did quite a bit of it in her free hours. So once she had washed the few breakfast dishes and put away the cereal boxes, she decided that she might as well wipe down the counters and the table. Of course, after she had dried the bowls and glasses and put them away, the state of disarray in his cabinets couldn't be ignored, and all of his dishes had to be taken out, organized, stacked neatly, and put back in.
The grime on his floor was fairly disgusting, so she went hunting for a mop. She was just about to call up the stairs to ask him where it was when she heard the crash.
"Jesus fucking Christ!"
She was moving before she could think. The stairs were easy, a few light bounds, and then she burst through his bedroom door, where he was writhing, shirtless, on the floor in pain, clutching his shoulder. Some part of her mind dimly realized that damn, he was very nicely built, but she banished that thought immediately.
"Oh my God. Hotch, what the hell happened?" She knelt beside him, trying to stop him from injuring himself further as he rolled around in anguish. Her hands probed gently at the wound to see if he was bleeding, but he batted at them with his good arm, and she backed off, startled.
"Don't, Prentiss!" he barked, clenching his teeth. "Leave it! Fuck!"
"Please, I'm trying to help!" she pleaded. "Lie still! What did you do?"
"Nothing!" He was actually shouting at her. "Goddamn it, get the fuck away from me! Just stop!"
Tears pricked at her eyes, but she released him and stood, unable to comprehend why he was acting this way. He remained on the floor, finally lying still. She looked away from him, ashamed that he had yelled at her like that. A pile of shirts on the top shelf of his closet were disturbed, and she guessed that he had unthinkingly reached from them with his injured shoulder and had collapsed from the pain.
"Hotch, please let me help you," she said at last, looking back at him and keeping her voice steady.
He closed his eyes, still in agony. "Leave now. I'm fucking fine! I've got it."
Every fiber of her body was aching to go to him and help, but she managed to fight the impulse, biting the inside of her cheek and locking her muscles. You're not fine! she wanted to scream. But it would do no good to tell him that.
"Leave," he said again, more quietly. "Just…leave now, Prentiss."
Battling tears, she did so and closed the door behind her. Once in the hallway, she slid down the wall to a sitting position and sobbed silently. Why couldn't he let her help? Was he really so stubborn that he refused to let her, the person he supposedly loved, help him in his moment of weakness? Was it pride, or – or an alpha male thing, or was he intentionally pushing her away, not wanting to be anything more than colleagues? He was locking himself inside the little house he had built around his emotions and throwing away the key, pretending not to hear her banging desperately on the door. Let me in, please, please, just let me in. It sickened her that he couldn't trust her enough to see him like that. He was building the walls of his house thicker and thicker, and soon no one would be able to get through to him. He would be completely alone, shut off from the world. Wouldn't even hear his loved ones trying to get through to him. Is that what you want, Aaron? Could anyone ever live like that? How quickly will it break you forever?
Rossi was absolutely right – the job was slowly eating him alive, and there would be a point where he would lose his line between right and wrong. You're losing it, Hotch, and it's killing me to watch you lose yourself in the process. When will I lose you? That will break me. I love you, but I can't do this. Not if it hurts this much. He was bleeding, and she bled with him. If he thought that Foyet had failed in killing him, well, he was wrong. Foyet didn't even need to try. He was already a dying man, alone in his dark house, and one bullet didn't make a difference: It was simply the catalyst. The emotional gun was already loaded; all Foyet had to do was pull the trigger. And Emily had a horrible feeling that, increasingly, he felt her finger had been on that trigger as well. She had pulled it much later, though – in the hospital room, with her confession. Or even as he was bleeding in her arms, with her whispered Don'tleaveme and Iloveyou.
Isn't that what love is, though? I hurt when you hurt. And it hurts so much, you and me both. You have to listen to Rossi. You need to learn to love and be loved in return.
But if this was what loving him meant, then she couldn't do it.
A/N: This chapter was originally planned very differently. The first half is still the same, with breakfast, but the second half kind of crept up on me. Anyway, not sure how good it is, but I'm sure you'll let me know with a lovely review! And this was written quite a bit faster than I expected – I had nothing written when I posted Chapter 8, but I managed to get this out quickly. Chapter 10 should be up within a few days.
