Prompt: Companion.
When he opens the door he smells of whisky, and it startles her – it's a smell she associates not with him but with someone else, with a past she's supposed to have buried. She has buried it, except for scent memories. She hasn't figured out how to get rid of those yet. So she's a little on edge when she comes inside and it takes him turning to her when they sit on the sofa to bring her back. He looks lost – he's letting the vulnerability show on his face, and she finds herself glancing around for the bottle, trying to figure out how much he's had.
"You okay?" she asks. She knows it's a stupid question, but they have to start somewhere.
"I can't keep doing nothing," he says. His voice is lower than normal, and a little rough around the edges, but he's not exactly slurring.
"You're not. We're not doing nothing. We haven't stopped looking for him, Hotch, and we'll get a break. I promise."
"You can't promise."
"Watch me," she says fiercely. "We won't let him win."
He looks down, the floor swimming just a little, the bitter taste in his mouth telling him he's had enough to drink. He knows he shouldn't have more but he kind of wants to. If he offers her a drink too, it won't look so bad… He's just opening his mouth to offer when he feels her hand on his back. It feels warm and soft and strong and it feels like an awfully long time since anybody actually touched him. It occurs to him instantly how sad that is, and he feels himself lean back a little into her touch.
She feels it, and starts tracing her hand up and down his back, trying to figure out how bad it is. He's not swaying, so he's probably right on that edge between quite enough and too much. He's letting her touch him, even leaning into it, and he's not doing the mask thing – at least not right now. This is a sign somewhere between good and bad. He'd never choose it, but it's a lot easier to deal with than totally closed off. "Hotch?" she says softly.
He lifts his head up with great effort and turns to her.
"Is there something I can do?"
He hesitates, then does what some dim, distant part of his brain knows he shouldn't. He reaches out and tugs her gently toward him. She wraps her arms around him and he clings to her, looking up and blinking away tears. He lets himself relax a little into the feel of her, spreading his hands over her back. She feels so strong and lithe and small, and she's holding him so fiercely, and he knows he shouldn't be thinking he never wants to let her go… After a while, she shifts them, lying down on the sofa and pulling him with her so his head is on her chest. She combs her fingers through his hair, knowing this touch is more intimate than it really should be, but also that he needs it. He needs to feel held and protected and cared for. She won't leave him all on his own with this. And he's holding on with a drowning grip. "Hey. You're not alone, you know? I'm right here."