Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you.
--Nathaniel Hawthorne
What they had now was a tentative, shaky understanding that they were ready to move beyond friendship. Their relationship was still new; a toddler that was learning to walk on unsteady legs, falling occasionally. The pain was necessary for them to learn to love each other. He was still hermit-like much of the time, partially because of the pain, but more intimate as well – a hand on the small of her back as they moved around the kitchen, perhaps, or doodling aimlessly on her palm as she leaned against him when they watched TV in the evening. It was like they were teenagers again, nervous and awkward about every movement. Neither of them had been in a meaningful relationship in months, so it was mostly rustiness. But there was also the unacknowledged truth between them that there was great potential for heartbreak. Their love was borne of fear and blood, and it resembled an eggshell: fragile, smooth, beautiful, but all too susceptible to breaking. One fumble by either of them, and it would shatter. So the best thing to do for now was to tread carefully.
Nearly a week had passed, and she was considering sneaking into his bed again (for innocent purposes). He did seem to make the nightmares go away, and the few moments of snuggling on the couch the previous night had been thoroughly enjoyed by both parties. She liked to rest her head in the hollow of his neck, snatching whiffs of his Old Spice-bleach-sweat scent, and he would run his hand softly through her dark hair, occasionally massaging her temples. It felt so heavenly to just to be near him, and she couldn't imagine spending an entire night like that. Permitted, encouraged, to be as close as possible. Not having to endure the longing she had experienced the first night: examining every feature of his rough-hewn face, wishing to stroke his cheek, imagining the feel of his forbidden skin, wrapping her own arms around herself and pretending that they were his. They hadn't even kissed properly yet, but somehow, sleeping in the same bed felt like the next step, especially since they had already done it.
So when he headed up to bed the next night, she switched off The Closer (he was a closet Kyra Sedgwick fan) and followed him, covertly helping him up the stairs. In the hallway, where they typically separated, he kissed her chastely on the cheek and turned to go, but she caught his hand.
"Can I stay with you tonight?"
He paused. "Is this about the nightmares?"
"No! No, I've been sleeping well. I just…want to be with you." The blush crept up her neck and blossomed on her face, staining her cheeks pink in what she hoped was an irresistible fashion.
Relaxing visible, he squeezed her hand. "Sure." He seemed to know that he was her version of a sleeping pill.
She went to fetch her pajamas and brush her teeth, and then tiptoed into his room, where he was already in bed, propped up with a pillow and reading The New York Times with his glasses on. How scholarly. The smile that emerged on her face at the sight of him was genuine. It was wonderful to know that she was able to be close to him now, and she took full advantage of that fact, crawling under the covers and pressing boldly against his side, stealing a section of the paper on her way. They were the epitome of a married couple – reading the newspaper together in bed, and it made her smile even broader.
He tired quickly, leaning over to get the light with his good arm after only a few minutes. Once the room was engulfed in darkness, he settled down, adjusting his body to fit hers. I was right; we fit perfectly together. She was snug against his chest, his legs tangling with hers, his injured arm resting carefully on her hip. The warmth that radiated off him was delicious. There was nothing sexual about it; she felt purely loved and wanted, which was all she needed.
"Good night, Emily," he whispered, dropping a kiss on the back of her neck.
"Good night, Aaron."
Again, she lay awake for at least an hour, but this time, it was out of happiness. She wanted to savor the moment, drinking in his scent and the feel of his body pressed to hers and the very feeling that rushed through her veins, lifting her higher and higher and reinflating the collapsed, blackened heart that had been poisoning her for so long. And this had to be what flying truly felt like.
**********
They awoke knotted together, their arms and legs mingled in a confused, delighted mess. Her head was tucked under his shoulder, and one of her arms was flung across his stomach. She was perfectly comfortable and would've happily stayed like that for several hours…days…but his shoulder was very obviously hurting him. Both of his arms had somehow wormed around her, which couldn't have been good for his injury.
"Hi," he said drowsily, the pain returning to his eyes. Their noses were millimeters away. Almost brushing, but not quite. "Sorry. I'm not used to sharing a bed anymore."
Her returning smile crinkled the velvety skin around her eyes. "No complaints here." Pressing a kiss to his forehead, she extracted herself from the bed and made her way to his side, ready to help if need be. But his shoulder held out pretty well, as he had been improving drastically over the past few days. In fact, he had regained quite a bit of mobility, which pleased her, although it would be a good month before he could even consider going out in the field.
Breakfast was leisurely. They lingered over coffee and the newspaper, not really saying much. Basking like snakes in the shared glow of simply being together and the sense of sweet freedom that accompanied that. Several times she caught him fixated on her, his impenetrable eyes darting over every inch of her. Quickly, silently, she profiled him. His body was relaxed, angled towards her, a physical sign of the turn their relationship had taken. He still favored his shoulder and often reached for it involuntarily; he was probably still lying about the pain level. His words were no longer clipped, flowing fluidly like water. Judging by the amount he was eating, his appetite had returned, which meant that he was healing and he was beginning to relax. And, most telltale: his foot resting neatly under hers. The simple, tangible contact was overwhelming and pacifying at once. A constant reminder that, to borrow his words, he was there and so was she. Most importantly, they were together.
For the first time in days, he felt well enough to go out after their studious paperwork session. A walk would do them both good, she decided, so they headed out the door with only badges, keys, and phones in tow. As they were with each other in broad daylight and weren't going very far, it wasn't necessary to bring their weapons.
The sunshine felt sinfully good on her pale skin, and she lifted her head to drink in as much warmth as possible. Light fingers came in contact with her downy cheek, and she opened her eyes to find him stroking her face curiously, yet tenderly. Immediately cautious, he dropped his hand, looking away guiltily. She grabbed his hand and squeezed reassuringly. Reaffirming the strange, quixotic bond between them that he was probing.
"It's okay. You don't have to pull away."
"I know," he mumbled. "I only wanted…"
She cut him off with a swift kiss on the cheek. "Relax," she whispered. "I'm not going anywhere, you old cripple."
That brought a smile, and he wrapped his good arm around her waist as they resumed their stroll. His behavior had again nudged the profiler in her, though, and frankly, it worried her. Was he really so starved for and yet afraid of physical contact with her. He had seemed perfectly at ease last night. They were constantly touching, mostly initiated by her because she'd noticed that it calmed him ever so slightly. It was as though he needed to confirm her presence, that she was indeed there, loving him, holding out her hand as she mouthed Come on and gestured to the light that was waiting just beyond. He shied away, and she kept coaxing him, begging him silently to let her in. And he seemed to be doing that, little by little. The blood on his hands was being gradually washed, scrubbed away by her. In the process, he was cleansing her as well.
So they ambled along as she mulled that over. They were healing together, arduously, but consistently. That was all she could hope for at this point. The trust would come, but in the meantime, she had to be patient.
They walked, and she loved him quietly, unobtrusively, his arm resting sensitively around her.
A/N: Firstly, I'd like to apologize for my long absence. Things got really crazy all of a sudden, and fanfiction was the last thing on my mind. But here is a lovely update for you, and I hope you enjoy it.
Secondly, I feel like I need to justify Hotch's behavior here. Obviously he's not a timid character, but he really is out of his element here. I think the at-work Hotch and the Hotch-in-a-new-relationship-with-someone-he's-wary-of are going to be very different people. Plus, he is still in a lot of pain, and that would make him different too. I can tell he's out of character, but I hope it's not too much.
Thirdly, an insignificant note: in my mind, Emily doesn't have those hideous bangs. I'm sorry, Paget Brewster: you're a gorgeous woman and a terrific actress, but those bangs do not flatter you. I liked her so much better with the early season 3 hair, and that's how I picture her here. It's vain, I know, but that's why you see no mention of her bangs. Just in case you wonder at some point.
Lastly – review!