Chapter Twenty-Eight

It had been so long since she had slept in the security of someone's arms. So long, in fact, that Emily couldn't remember if it had ever actually happened before. It must have, she decided, but the truth was that, more often than not, her lovers left before the morning. She always woke up alone.

Hotch fell asleep first, his breathing slowing to a steady rhythm, his chest rising and falling against her back in the same comforting metre. His arm fell across her waist, hand pressed against her stomach, and she laced her fingers through his, her palm pressed against the back of his hand. How had it come to this?

It had been coming, she thought, as she shifted slightly backwards and Hotch's arm tightened around her stomach, instinctively, pulling her closer to him, for a long time.

It had been the best year of her life. Well, the best ten months, and that was largely down to finally being away from Elizabeth. Ambassador Prentiss had never been the most present parent and, yet, somehow, every aspect of Emily's life, down to what she wore to dinner, was dictated by the woman who couldn't so much as turn up to a dance recital. Emily hadn't even wanted to take those dance lessons, so it stung even more when Elizabeth didn't show up. But that was years ago. As she climbed out of the private cab Elizabeth had sent to the airport for her, Emily barely glanced at the house - estate - in front of her. It was just like all of the others. Grand, old and too big. Back when she was a kid, it would have been her idea of a haven. She would have spent the whole summer exploring the rooms, finding new hiding places, building dens in secret places and, just generally, hiding from her mother, or whichever nanny she had that season.

Emily had grown tired of American architecture quickly, since being back in the States. Used to the rolling expanses of British estates, spanning acres, and the gold embossed fountains of their Italian il palazzo, the sapphire encrusted tiled floors of their Indian havelee, even the grandest American mansions paled in comparison. They lacked the history, the mystery, the allure. There was nothing romantic about an American mansion. She would come to think differently about that by the end of that summer.

"Can I help with your bags?" An unfamiliar voice asked. Emily waved, absently, towards the boot of the cab, still skipping songs. She took a few steps, then turned back.

"Hey, can you-" Her voice faltered. England, Italy and India didn't have this.

He was older than her by a couple of years; she'd put him at maybe 25, 26? His dark hair was just a little too long, flopping down into his eyes as he easily pulled her suitcases from the trunk of the car. "Hot."

"Excuse me?" He glanced at her, and Emily faltered a moment, over her words.

"I was just saying, aren't you hot?" He was wearing a black suit, his red tie fastened severely high. His black sunglasses shielded his eyes from the sun, but it was the middle of June in Arizona, and the sun was directly overhead. In her gym shorts and Yale hoodie, even Emily was starting to feel the heat. "Surprised you're not a puddle in that suit."

He didn't respond, but shook his head, closing the trunk and patting the car, to let the driver know he could go. The car roared into life and left the long drive as this new mystery man, who had to be a new member of Mother's security team, began to pull her suitcases up the gravel towards the house.

"I can take one-" She offered, but he ignored her, "Or not."

They walked up the drive in silence, ascending the steps to the front doors, which stood open. In the foyer, he set down her suitcases and turned to her, taking the sunglasses from his face. His eyes, she noticed, were brown. Soft brown. Softer than anything else about him.

"I'll have these taken up to your suite. Your mother is out, she asked that you dress for dinner and be ready at eight o'clock."

Everything he said, he said with diction and purpose. Just a man following his orders.

"Right," She nodded, glancing around at the tall foyer. Just another old, stuck-up building with pictures of old, stuck-up people on the walls. "I'll do that, thank you. Agent-?" They were always agents.

"Hotchner." He supplied. "Agent Hotchner, Miss Prentiss."

Emily smirked at being addressed this way. "It's, uh, it's Emily." She walked towards the stairs.

"Do you need me to show you where your rooms are?" He asked, politely.

"Oh, I'm sure I got this covered. But, thanks." She mock saluted him, a grin on her face, before heading upstairs. "See ya' later, Hotch."

This summer was going to be more fun than she had thought.

She'd been a tease all summer, Emily recalled, though a seemingly unsuccessful one. Try as she might, roaming around the estate in short-shorts, in bikinis as she lounged in the gardens and at the pool. Hotch hadn't so much as glanced at her for the rest of the summer, if he could help it. Every conversation between them was the result of a request or an order from Elizabeth. Your mother asked that you...Ambassador Prentiss suggested that...He was just following orders. Now, she knew better. Now, she knew she wasn't the only one tormented that summer. She also knew, however, that Haley had been in the picture back then. If she had known at the time, would she have altered her behaviour? Would she have behaved herself? Emily smiled against her own hand, where it was tucked up beneath her cheek. Probably not.

The smile faded from her lips as Emily caught the shape of her suitcases looming in the dark. The boxes that leaned against them created a hulking monster in the corner of her bedroom. It didn't scare her, but it made her chest ache with a longing she knew was premature. She clung tighter to Hotch's hand, closing her eyes and focusing on his breathing to try and soothe her to sleep.

It wasn't an impulse, when the words rose to her lips. It felt more like choosing between the fight and flight response, an intense surge of knowing that if she didn't say it now, she might never get the chance.

"I love you," She whispered into the darkness. Hotch didn't move. His breathing didn't falter. He was fast asleep, and Emily was glad. She had said it, at least once, she'd said the words out loud. Admitted it to herself, and to him. That Hotch was unconscious was, Emily bargained, inconsequential. What he didn't know couldn't hurt him.

Morning came far too quickly, bringing with it the streaming sun through curtains neither of them had thought to close, and when Hotch woke up, it was to Emily's face inches from his own. She had rolled away from him in her sleep, onto her stomach. The sheets had tangled around her body, leaving her back exposed. Her leg jutted out from beneath the cover, black hair spilling like melted chocolate across the pillow. Even in sleep, she frowned. He knew that expression; it was one she wore when something was bothering her, when she couldn't figure out the last piece of the case that would stitch all of the pieces together. Her lips were pursed, pouting like a petulant child. She was, he thought, smiling, adorable.

Waking up with her this time was very different to the last. He leaned in towards her, splaying his hand across her back, and kissed her forehead. Emily mumbled in response, groggy and quiet, but aware. Smiling against her skin, Hotch moved down, kissing her ear, then her throat, her shoulder blades. With each kiss, Emily hummed in approval. There were definitely worse ways to be woken up.

"What time is it?" She asked, blinking sleep out of eyes and frowning up at him.

Hotch shrugged. "Phone's over there," He nodded to where his blazer had been discarded the night before. Emily rolled her eyes, hoisting herself up on her elbows and leaning across him to check the alarm clock on his side of the bed. Hotch leaned back, obediently, not about to complain about the naked lady laying on top of him.

"Eleven," She settled back down, but her head remained on his chest. She lay there a moment, quiet, and then looked up at him, chin resting against his chest. "Last night was-"

"I know." Hotch agreed, leaning forwards to capture her lips with his own. She kissed him back, lazily at first, but then with a steadily growing fervour. Hotch eased her slowly onto her back, and Emily brought her arms up to wrap around his neck as he climbed gently between her legs, discovering her all over again. They didn't speak, each movement and sensation amplified by the silence, the lack of a need for words.

It was lazy sex. Sunday afternoon sex. Lets spend the rest of our lives together and grow old sex. It was different to anything Emily had ever experienced before. She'd always scoffed at people who called it making love. Now, she realised, she understood the distinction. Emily came not with a scream, this time, but a sigh of otherworldly pleasure, and Hotch followed her immediately over the edge.

"So," He spoke into her neck, planting kisses. "Breakfast?"

"I can't," Emily pushed his shoulders gently, and Hotch sat up. She climbed out of bed and wandered off to the bathroom. Returning a moment later, now clad in an over-sized t-shirt with the name of a band he had never heard of plastered across her chest. It looked like an angry band. "What?" She asked, when she saw him staring at her.

"You can't?" He was smiling, teasing, "How come?"

"Well, I have a plane to catch," She said, with a smile, as she bent down to her suitcase and began unzipping the top one. "I've gotta be at the airport at two."

Hotch felt like she had dropped a boulder on his chest. And he was well aware that he had no right to feel that way, but that didn't stop he cocktail of emotions that poured into him. Devastation, anger, embarrassment. Her nonchalance shocked him. She hadn't even paused, in between last night and today. There was no hesitation in her at all. Hotch stared, elbows resting on his knees, for a moment, before nodding. Throwing back the covers, he bent down to grab his boxers from the floor and pulled them on. "Right. Your flight, of course."

The shortness of his response caught Emily off guard and she paused in the act of dragging out a pair of leggings from her case. "You knew I was leaving." She told him, gently. He was pulling his jeans on, now, buttoning them, as he nodded. He didn't speak and Emily turned away from him once more, casting a glance heavenward as she braced herself. This was going to turn into a confrontation quickly, and she knew that wasn't what either of them wanted. She also couldn't stand that look on his face, though. Just like the evening before, the atmosphere had changed so quickly that neither of them had the chance to process it. Emily sighed, standing up and turning to face Hotch where he stood. "Say something."

"Say what?" Hotch asked, as he pulled the sleeves of his shirt from inside themselves. The shirt was rumpled, lipstick marks on the collar.

"I can, uh, iron that for you," Emily offered, running a hand over her face before placing both on her hips. It seemed a sensible enough suggestion until Emily remembered that her iron was packed away in one of the many boxes now decorating her apartment. That, and she didn't think she had ever turned the thing on since she bought it. That's what dry cleaners were for. He glanced at her, frowning, before pulling the shirt on and beginning to do the buttons. The offer had been a pointless one, they both knew it.

"It's fine. Are you all packed? Do you need any help?" As the queen of compartmentalisation, Emily could spot the symptoms anywhere. Hotch was employing the tactic of distraction.

"No," She told him, shaking her head and now folding her arms across her chest. "No, I'm all packed. Do you want to talk about this?"

He didn't. She could see from his body language that he did not want to talk about it, but she asked anyway. She asked because someone had to be the grown up, and grown ups talked about these things. She asked because she would be getting on a plane in a couple of hours, and didn't know if and when she would ever see him again. She asked because of the words she had whispered into the night, because she had meant what she said, and because when someone you love is hurting, you talk. But Hotch didn't want to talk. And that was when Emily realised. She loved him. He didn't love her back. If he did, he would understand; he would be able to let her go because this was what she needed to do.

"We could try long distance?" She offered it up, almost desperately, grasping for strings as she saw the edges of whatever had grown between them begin to fray.

Hotch sighed. "That wouldn't work, Emily. You know it wouldn't."

Indignant at the dismissive response, she raised her eyebrows. "Why not? Will and JJ did it!"

"Will and JJ commuted between Washington and New Orleans for a year. It's a three hour flight. It's a three hour, internal flight that doesn't take you across an ocean, Emily. London is on an entirely different continent."

"I don't need a geography lesson, Hotch!" She raised her voice, matching his volume. "I'm aware of the logistics. What? Are you saying this isn't worth trying for?"

The hesitation ripped through her heart. It made her sad, and then it made her mad, and the next thing Emily knew, she was outright yelling at him.

"You have no right to be this angry with me!" She raised her hand, pointing an accusing finger at him. "No right! You don't get one night of sex and suddenly think I'm going to change all of my plans for you!" He was staring now, like he wanted to be anywhere else. His face was thunderous, his brows furrowed tightly, angrily. But Emily was angry, too, and she suddenly didn't care about how he was looking at her; like someone he didn't know, and someone he liked even less. "What did you think, Hotch? That I was going to put all of my dreams on hold? What for? To stay home and take care of Jack? Have your dinner ready on the table for when you come home from the BAU, where you work with our friends? Pop you out a couple more kids, in the meantime? That's not me, Aaron! I'm not Haley! I will never be Haley!"

You can't put the genie back in the bottle. It was a saying one of her nannies used all of the time whenever she did something wrong. She would cry, beg forgiveness, throw horrific tantrums, like any six year old does, but the statement never changed, and it never became untrue. It was done. The words had left her mouth and she saw Hotch's face fall. A light went out behind his eyes, like a shutter slamming closed, and Emily knew that, as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

"I should go." Emily couldn't find it in her to argue with him, mostly because she knew he was right. She stood there, watching him gather his blazer up off the floor, and then he disappeared, out of her room and into the hallway. She almost let him leave, almost let him walk out of her life right there and then. Emily has never chased a man before in her life.

Almost at her door, he turned at he sound of her bare feet slapping on the wooden floor, and just as he turned, just in time to catch her, he found his arms full of her. Emily pressed a hard, forceful kiss to his lips, and Hotch wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly, almost too tightly, raising her onto her tip toes. He held onto her for a long time, knowing it would be the last. The anger in his chest didn't go away, but, for a moment, Hotch set it aside. For a moment, he let himself believe she was his. Then he set that aside, too.

"Call me, okay?" He said, into her hair. "When you land. Just, let me know you're safe."

She nodded, and he gently released her, her feet planting themselves firmly on the ground once more. Wrapping her arms around herself, Emily tried to smile as she saw him out of the door. Neither of them said goodbye. She watched him to the end of the corridor, until he was out of sight, and then headed back into her empty, cold apartment. Closing the door behind her, Emily felt all of her strength leave her, and slid down the door. She sat there for a long time, long enough that when she finally moved, she had to rush, barely having the time to throw out her black bed sheets because, well, there was nobody here to have them dry cleaned.

It was four o'clock in the morning when Emily finally arrived into London Heathrow airport, thanks to a delayed flight and the time difference. And it was raining. A pathetic, miserable drizzle that clouded her window on the plane, and ran like tears on the glass. She hadn't cried, not on the plane. That was too cliche. They always cried on the plane in movies. Emily point-blank refused to be that girl. She didn't cry in the cab on the way to the hotel Clyde had booked for her. She didn't cry alone, in her hotel room.

She cried in the shower, at 5am, pathetic, wretched sobs, as she washed the smell of him from her skin.