Aromatic
They are coming home from a brutal interview at a prison in Portland, or they would be, but storms in the Midwest have grounded the plane until morning, and so instead they are in another impersonal hotel room, the only one they could find on such short notice. It is not the first time, and will not be the last, and neither of them bat an eye at the single bed against the wall. His interest is piqued, however, at her sigh of displeasure as she pulls an item from her bag and sniffs it. She throws the article over her shoulder and continues rummaging in her duffel, and it is enough time for him to recognize Morgan's t-shirt. He wonders if perhaps she hadn't had time to do laundry between their last case and heading out for this interview, and he finds himself asking before he can hold the words back.
"No clean laundry?"
She glances at him briefly before turning back to the bag on the floor.
"Oh, um, no. I always do that first when we get back."
He waits to see if she will say anything else, but she busies herself with collecting her toiletries.
Understanding comes to him in a flash as she is juggling pajamas and shower supplies, and he hurries to snag a t-shirt of his own from his bag, pulling navy blue from her shoulder and replacing it with crimson.
"What're you do-"
"I can't make Morgan's shirt smell more like him, but I can offer you one of mine for tonight."
He sees a split second's worth of embarrassment before it is tamped down, and he hurries to continue before she can refuse.
"Please, Emily. We're both going to have nightmares anyway. Let me try to make yours just a little bit easier."
The earnestness in his gaze is too much for her, and she can't find the words to make him take his shirt back. She whispers a "Thanks, Hotch" into the space between them and shuts the bathroom door.
It is some time from when he hears the water turn off and when the bathroom door opens again.
"You cannot possibly expect me to wear this."
He looks up from the case file in his lap and smirks at the twinkle in her eye.
"Is there a problem?"
"Is there a problem?" she mocks, and he laughs. "No self-respecting Yale alum would be caught dead in this scrap." She gestures to the worn lettering sprawled across the front of the Harvard Law t-shirt covering her from shoulder to mid-thigh, and he has to bite back a smile as he replies.
"Well, Prentiss, I am running out of clean laundry, so as much as it pains me to see it, we're both going to have to accept that you, proud Yale alumna that you are, will have to disgrace my dear Harvard for tonight." He gives a mock frown and continues, "I might have to burn it in the morning. Pity, that's a good shirt."
He feels a little lighter with the laugh that erupts from her at that ridiculous utterance, and after she crawls in opposite him and he clicks off the lamp, he can't help but pile on one more line.
"I have to say, Prentiss, Harvard looks good on you."
He considers the rise he gets out of her worth the bruise he'll have in the morning where her elbow connects with his ribs.
She is pulled from the brink of sleep when he whispers to her from his place across the bed.
"Why Morgan?"
It takes her a moment to understand his question, and another to answer.
"He smells…safe."
He doesn't know what to say to that, so he hums wordlessly back to her. The silence stretches before them until it is broken once more, and this question feels much more important when it drifts to her on the current of the air conditioner.
"Is this one just as good as Morgan's?"
The soft smile on her face bleeds into her whisper back to him as she fingers the well-worn fabric draping her.
"Yeah, it's just as good as Morgan's."
And there, in the familiar darkness, wrapped in soft crimson cotton and the scent of him, she sleeps without dreams.