Chapter Fifteen

Once her report was written, Emily was ready to leave the office. She hadn't seen Hotch since they'd gotten back; the door to his office had been closed since she'd come back up from the locker room. JJ and Morgan had left as fast as they could; JJ to see the boys, Morgan because he said he hadn't slept much the night before. Emily had been forced to resist rolling her eyes at the statement, and at the stupidly proud expresion on her friend's face. JJ, however, had pulled a face that demonstrated both of their disapproval quite well. Reid had stuck around for about half an hour to write his report, then bid her good evening. That, she felt, was a little premature given the fact that it was early afternoon and they had plenty of time to be called back into the office for a new case. It had been known to happen. Many times. Garcia was about somewhere, but she had already said goodbye to them all earlier. That left Hotch.

Emily sat at her desk for a long while after she had finished writing up her report. Picking at her fingernails and chewing her cheek, she stared at that door to Hotch's office. His blinds were drawn, but he hadn't gone home. He wouldn't go home, she knew. Jack was with Jessica. That was the responsibility that fell on his shoulders; he couldn't go home, as team leader. He could give the rest of them permission, but he was chained to his desk, metaphorically. And, Emily thought, mentally.

The word workaholic sprang to mind. Though, she thought, she couldn't accuse him with too much disdain since she was fairly certain that there were many who would describe her as a workaholic, too. Funny, how they'd both rather be here than at home with their thoughts.

Picking up the file from her desk, she made her way up to his office and knocked on the door. No reply. Perhaps he had gone home, and she'd not noticed. Perhaps he'd gone home while she was downstairs changing. Intending to leave the file on his desk, Emily reached for the handle and stepped into the dark office. She was halfway to the desk when she noticed the figure sitting on the couch, and she gasped in surprise, holding the file to her chest as her heart raced in her chest.

Hotch was asleep. There was a yellow case file at his feet, where it had clearly slipped from his grasp, and his head, leaning on the palm of his hand, was lolling. He was snoring, softly, and, once over her initial shock, Emily smiled at the sound. It was rare that she saw him this peaceful and, well, she hadn't been able to take it in this morning, after all. Continuing on her route to his desk, Emily set down the file she had printed off, and turned to look at him. Leaning back against his desk, she regarded her sleeping boss with curious eyes.

The man barely had room for his son in his life. It was a painful truth that she knew he grappled with (although he'd never said as much outloud; he hadn't had to). What made her think he had room for her? The question hit her like a bullet - and she could make that comparison, because she knew what a bullet felt like. Shaking her head, Emily had to remind herself that she didn't want him to make room for her. They weren't an us. They weren't going to be an us. The idea was laughable. And impossible.

But she still wished JJ hadn't disturbed them up this morning.

With a sigh, she pushed away from the desk and walked towards Hotch, inending to wake him up and tell him to go home, if only because sleeping like that was going to give him a horrible crick in his neck, which would put him into a foul mood. Stooping to pick up the file, she moved to set it on the desk beside her own, barely glancing at it. She vaguely recognised it as one JJ had mentioned a few days ago, one that had come up through ViCAP, but the local police hadn't called them in so they'd had no ground to investigate.

Emily didn't even hear him move; she felt his breath on her neck before anything else.

"I hope you're not snooping around my office, Agent Prentiss," His voice was little more than a growl in her ear, and Emily had to fight the urge to close her eyes blissfully at the sound. Her heart was racing again, and not just out of fear, though that was definitely a factor.

"I would never," She replied, slowly turning to face him, "You know me better than that. I'm the epitome of professional."

"As am I," He agreed, brown eyes roaming over her face and landing on her lips. Mouth suddenly very dry, Emily ran her tongue across her lips. She thought she saw him swallow, in response. A small smiled graced her lips, and Emily found herself enjoying the effect she had on him. Not that he didn't have an effect on her, too.

"I thought I ought to apologise for last night," His words were professional enough, but the low tone of them, and the way his eyes were still lingering on her lips before travelling up to bore into her own, presented an entirely different front.

"Oh?" Was all Emily could manage, trying as she was to keep her head.

"Yes," He nodded, bringing his face ever closer to hers.

"Which part are you apologising for?" Emily prompted, almost teasing him. She was looking for a correct answer here, and there definitely was one. He had to know what she wanted to hear.

"For being too drunk to do this," And then his lips were crashing down against hers. It was a deep and fast and breathless kiss, and Emily gripped his arms, scrunching his suit jacket in her palms, while his hands were on her hips, pulling her to him and gripping her tightly.

This,she recalled, was just about where they had left off a few days ago. Or, close enough.

There were so many reasons to stop it. Jack, his position, his potential promotion, the fact that fraternisation inside of the FBI was looked down upon, if not strictly forbidden, the fact that Emily was fairly certain she had left the door open behind her. And, yet, Hotch kissing her was too delicious, she couldn't have torn herself away from him if she wanted to.

His hands were under her arms all of a sudden, and he was lifting her. She felt the ground disappear for a moment, and then she was sitting on the edge of his desk. It was exactly the sort of masculine display she would expect of Hotch, and Emily had no problem with it at all. Much to the contrary; she grinned as she broke the kiss for air, breathing hard against his chest as his hands travelled up her back and pulled her ever closer.

They travelled further up her back, running down her arms, and back up again. One circled her throat, and Emily tilted back her head, giving him access, letting him take control. The hand around her throat tightened and Emily chuckled.

"I didn't have you pegged for a choking kinda guy," She teased.

Hotch didn't reply. The hand around her throat was tightening. It was uncomfortable now and she tried to cough. Putting a hand on his chest, she tried to push him away.

"Hotch?" One hand on his chest, the other grappling with the hand around her throat, Emily didn't understand why he was doing this to her. Then he had both hands around her neck, and she was lying down on the desk, and he was baring down on her. She didn't remember moving and yet he was kneeling over her, his face bearing an expression she had seen only a handful of times. His face was red, his teeth bared, hair flopping down into his eyes.

She couldn't breathe. He was going to kill her. Hotch was going to choke the life out of her in the heart of the FBI.

And, then, suddenly, he wasn't Hotch anymore.

"Ian!"" Emily sprung up suddenly, her sheets sticking to her moist skin, hair wet with sweat and clinging to her neck, her own hand reaching for her neck as though to drag his fingers away from it. She found no hand there, just her own throat, and rested her hand on her collarbones, feeling her pulse pound beneath her skin.

Sergio, scared awake by her shout, had leapt to his feet beside her. His tail was standing up and he was regarding her with huge, worried eyes, tail swishing behind him anxiously. Heart pounding in her chest, Emily reached out a shaking hand to gently stroke him.

"It's okay," She spoke softly, to the cat, and to herself, "I'm fine. We're fine. I'm sorry." She pressed a kiss between his ears, but Sergio wasn't going to settle back down now. He leapt down from the bed, clearly unhappy with her for waking them both up, and pounced off towards the kitchen. Seconds later, she heard him lapping at his water. An excellent idea.

Climbing shakily out of bed, Emily made her own way through to the kitchen and, with hands that were still trembling a little, poured her own drink from the water dispenser in the fridge. She glanced towards her desk, and felt better, knowing her gun was safely stowed away in there. She could protect herself. And, more importantly, Ian was gone. She'd seen him die; she had watched Chloe Donaghy put a bullet in him, had witnessed his last words to his son. Ian was no threat to anybody anymore, least of all her. She didn't need protection from him. But he would love to know she was still suffering from his abuse.

Now angry as well as spooked, Emily hated imagining the smug smile that would adorn his face if he could know she was still having nightmares about him. The four leaf clover he had burned into her skin was gone (surgically removed with a graft and a hefty chunk of the FBI's money during her time in Paris) and although the scar on her torso remained, Emily had really thought those wounds had begun to heal. She thought she was done thinking about him and them and done with looking over her shoulder, waiting for him to come back for her. It was clear, however, that the scars he had burned into her mind were far from gone. He had hunted her then. Now, he was haunting her.

But, why now? Why, after these long months? Because of Hotch? She expected Reid would have some sort of long-winded but accurate explanation of why her subconscious was trying to scare her but Emily didn't have to be the boy genius to psychoanalyse herself.

"I'm scared of being hurt, again," She spoke, aloud, to the room, with only Sergio to hear and he didn't even glance up at her from where he had settled atop the shoe rack. His tail swished, at the sound of her voice, but other than that, he was motionless, relaxed once more. Emily almost wished he would come back to bed. She'd never been a cat person before Sergio. Now, it seemed, he was occasionally her greatest ally, on nights such as tonight, when she scared herself out of sexy dreams and into nightmares.

It was early, not late. Early enough that she could be awake and stay awake; weak sunlight was trying to break through the early morning darkness on the horizon and Emily knew there was no point getting back into bed. She wouldn't be able to fall back asleep. Instead, she resolved to get ready for work and hit the gym before she had to be in the office. It was the only place where she could work off her anxiety, lately, and she needed to do something to get rid of her pent up energy. Now coiled like a spring, unwinding at the gym would be what was best for her, and anybody she would come into contact with throughout the way.

Twenty minutes later found her in her in a sports bra and gym leggings, headphones fixed tightly in her ears, beating on a punchbag like it had Ian Doyle's face. She imagined knocking his teeth out with a roundhouse kick, imagined smashing open his brow with a punch, imagined blood seeping from a split lip...

The hand on her shoulder startled her and, had it been anybody but Morgan, they'd have been left with the broken nose she had intended for Doyle. Morgan, though, leaned easily out of the way and caught her arm before she lost her balance, steadying her. The expression on his face was concern and Emily had to steady herself for an onslaught of questions before she took out her headphones.

"Sorry," She said, shortly, "Too into the routine."

"Emily," Derek pointed out, tilting his head towards the window, "It's not even 6am yet."

"I know," She assured him, wandering over to her gym bag and shoving her now tangled headphones into the depths of it while grabbing her water bottle. She made a show of gulping from the bottle, giving herself a chance to think up an answer to the question she knew was coming.

"So, why are you here?" It was a valid question, but Emily pretended to shrug, nonchalantly, and gestured to him.

"You're here."

"I'm always here this early, Emily. How else do you expect me to keep up the chocolate xylophone?" He was smiling now, and Emily returned it, wearily. The smile faded from his face, though the corners of his mouth remained upturned, and his eyes softened. "For real, I never see you here this early; you're a night owl, not an early morning person. You're knocking down a coffee and a Xanax at seven, and I never even get a smile before 8. So, seriously, princess. What's going on with you?"

She considered telling him, really she did. Not about Hotch, maybe, but about the rest of it. About Doyle. But, when she opened her mouth, her shoulders shrugged of their own accord, and the voice that spoke was one that sounded much more cavalier than she felt.

"I guess this last case just messed with my body clock, that's all. I promise, I'll be back to snarling you tomorrow morning, okay?"

Derek didn't look convinced, but as she stalked off to the showers, Emily was grateful that he didn't push it any further.


A/N

Yes I dropped another dreamscape, don't hate me. As always, very grateful for your feedback, guys! Hope you're still enjoying and thank you for the reviews! Writing this is one of the things keeping me going through lock down, so I love to see that you guys are enjoying it, too.

Stay safe. Stay inside. Wash yer feckin hands.

Steph x