A/N: Well, well, well. Here I am CRAWLING very slowly out from under a rock after a LONG hiatus from writing … well … anything (judging by my last fic it's been almost two years, so there's that).
It's been a VERY long time since I've even thought about CM (8 years, maybe), much less written about it. I guess quarantine does odd things to my brain, because I am DEEP in the Hotch/Prentiss trashcan, despite the fact that they never even got together on the show. (Don't even get me started).
Major ugh, but I digress. Onward.
This is a culmination of everything that's been running through my mind since catching a bit of 100 on Ion a few weeks ago, and falling deep into a CM bender. I needed to address all my feels for these two complicated lovebirds that never were (despite how much I wanted/needed them to be). I tried to highlight some of the "bigger" moments with the longer installments while filling the spaces with some of the shorter ones. Enjoy, loves.
Hearts will never be practical, they say, until they can be made unbreakable.
Practical
Practical: (of an idea, plan, or method) likely to succeed in real circumstances.
By definition, it's a bad idea to even consider something could happen between them. To weigh the odds would be playing with fire. To act upon it - they might as well just throw gas and watch it burn.
It would never work. They know this all too well - they're both too jaded to think differently. It's what happens when you play the game.
It's a game they're willing to play. In this game, losers end up broken hearted and there's rarely a winner.
But hearts aren't practical.
Dance
It's the dance they do.
It's not intentional, but it's almost effortless. Small moments in a day that build up over time.
Some (those more optimistic) might even call it chemistry.
A subtle glance here or there.
The accidental brush of his shoulder against hers while they review case files on one more flight.
Sometimes (if they're lucky) it's the trace of her honeysuckle scented shampoo when he holds the door open to allow her through, or the traces of his cologne she can barely discern at their morning briefings before her eyes are even fully open.
It's when they sit side by side in the Suburban (he's behind the wheel almost always; she rides in shotgun) without saying a word as they stake out yet another unsub. Occasionally, it's the silent understanding of the emotional turmoil they face each and every day on their job as they wrestle with the constant questions - the how, the why. Questions they can't seem to find, with answers they already have.
It's how she covers him in the field - collected and unflinching - always just a few steps behind him but somehow perfectly in sync. She can anticipate his next steps; he doesn't have to use words. Every now and then, he's reminded of how far they've come since she joined the team.
Once in a while, she wears his favorite sweater; the deep v-necked emerald green one. Normally he doesn't pay much attention to those things, but there's something about that damn sweater. On a good day, he wears the light blue shirt with the tie and she hates herself for knowing that he owns no less than 15 shirts all in varying shades of blue. The light blue one is still her favorite.
Deliveries
He brings her coffee on a Monday in late September and she notices immediately that he's wearing that light blue shirt.
There's no rhyme or reason for his generosity, but it's early, it's Monday, and it's from her favorite cafe down the street, so she's not complaining.
Hotch sets it down beside her and Emily is momentarily confused because there are 7 of them on the team, but she only sees two cups. She lifts an eyebrow but is grateful for the unexpected delivery, and thanks him with a small, but friendly, smile before turning back to her computer, tapping away at the keys.
He's halfway up the steps to his office when it dawns on him that she's wearing the emerald sweater.
...
He has to leave unexpectedly in a rush a week later on Tuesday when Jack falls off his bicycle and needs an X-Ray of his left arm. 7 hours and one exhausting ER trip later, Jack rocks a brand new, neon green cast (Mommy's favorite color, he says). He's brave, doesn't cry, and asks if they can take a picture of his cast and send it to Mommy in heaven.
"Sure, Buddy," he obliges, his mouth stretched in a thin line, and Jack smiles hugely for the camera while holding up his casted arm, brandishing a lollipop in the other hand.
On the way home, Hotch swallows a lump in his throat.
He's been gone for hours when Emily realizes she never handed in the reports she normally presents to him every Tuesday - reports that he needs to review and give to Strauss by tonight. She gets his address from Garcia, who for once doesn't ask any questions. She sits through an extra 30 minutes of Northern Virginia traffic before arriving at his house, file folders tucked neatly under her arm.
When the door opens, he looks genuinely surprised to see her standing there, maybe even a bit alarmed. "Prentiss? What are you doing here?" He leaves the door open a bit and steps onto the porch.
"You wear suits at home too?" Her tone is light; she wears a slightly amused grin.
She'd also love to see him out of that suit, but that's neither here nor there.
She's caught him off guard. He uncharacteristically stumbles over his words and glances down at his suit and tie. "I .. ah - we just got back from the hospital not too long ago."
"How did things go?"
"He has a broken arm. Has a cast for the next six weeks, but he's fine. Ice cream later will do the trick." Hotch eyes her up and down, beginning to question her motives for showing up on his doorstep seemingly at random. "What do you need?"
"I - ah - I didn't get these to you before you left," Emily holds out the files, suddenly feeling awkward and woefully out of place. "I thought you might need them."
He lifts an eyebrow before taking the stack, glancing at the contents. He does need them. In his haste to tend to Jack, he'd forgotten all about them. It's not the first time he's forgotten something since Haley's death. Being a single parent and an only parent are two wildly different scenarios. A scenario, he thinks with a pinch of sadness, he's semi responsible for.
"I didn't know you made house calls, Prentiss." There's a hint of appreciation in his tone.
She doesn't, but he's a different story.
Birthday
Her birthday (October 12th - information he keeps for later) falls on a Friday. JJ and Garcia plan a trip to DC to celebrate (dinner at a swanky Tapas restaurant and bar hopping) and throughout the day it becomes very clear this is a girls-only occasion.
Hotch stays in his office later than usual; Jack is spending the evening with Jessica and the mountain of files on his desk isn't getting any smaller. He works on autopilot for several hours before making a dent in the pile.
When he heads out for the night, she's also leaving with Garcia and JJ. He's never seen JJ wearing as much makeup as she is right now; Garcia's teetering on a pair of insanely high heels ( that's nothing new), but that's not what (who) he's looking for.
Emily looks stunning in a little black dress that hugs her in all the right places and emphasizes curves he's never noticed before. It's short without being too short, and he has to pull his eyes away from her legs before it becomes blatantly obvious that he's checking her out.
They're talking excitedly, ready for their night ahead as they hustle past him. "Night, Hotch!" JJ calls over her shoulder as Garcia whips out her phone to call a cab, chattering a mile a minute. He gives a half hearted wave, and against his better judgement, calls her name.
"Hey Prentiss?"
Emily stops and turns, spinning on her heels and taking three even paced steps toward him. The little black dress really does fit like a glove. Eyes up, he tells himself, because he doesn't trust himself. He doesn't have a card or a gift or anything for her, so he stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets.
It leaves him and her, her and him, for a brief moment. In her heeled shoes, they're almost the same height; she's still shorter by about an inch.
"Happy birthday. And, have fun tonight."
"Thanks, Hotch." She gives him a dazzling smile; it makes his head spin just a little bit more.
When she turns around to meet her friends outside, she puts a little extra sway in her hips. She's not stupid, and she knows he's still staring at her ass.
When Monday morning rolls around, they remain tight lipped about their night despite the good natured teasing from Rossi and Morgan.
But eventually they relent, and Garcia is just about to whip out her phone to show the team some seemingly questionable dance floor photos when Hotch cuts them off. "I think we should get started."
As JJ starts to present the case, he's sure he's seeing things when she throws a quick, subtle wink from across the table.
Solace Part 1
Exactly three weeks after her birthday, they fly home from Savannah on a Friday night. This case was a tough one - two missing little girls (best friends) from two sets of families, one girl returned safely, and one girl gone forever.
It hits her particularly hard, and she's silent the entire trip home. Emily doesn't even crack a grin when Morgan attempts a few half-hearted jokes to cheer her up. She turns Reid down when he asks to play cards. Instead, she just turns her shoulder toward the window and tucks her cheek against her hand.
It's late - her watch reads 1:18 AM (Saturday now) with more than an hour to go. The plane is dark and quiet. Most of the team is sleeping, or at least pretending to be. She wishes she could sleep too, but she can't switch off her brain. Not tonight.
She turns her head to the window, a sheet of dark hair falling like a sleek curtain over her cheek, and watches the wing of the plane slice through the dark lumps of clouds. There's a rustling of fabric against leather, and soft footsteps that get closer to her. Footsteps she knows.
"Can I sit?" His voice is two octaves lower than normal, and it sends a shudder down her spine. It's the first she's talked to him in hours. He's wisely kept his distance from her thus far. For that she's grateful, but she knows he's been keeping a watchful eye on her since leaving Savannah.
He sees everything, somehow. She's no exception.
"Sure."
Hotch sits across from her (she's grateful he doesn't sit next to her) and stretches his legs out in front of him. "Can't sleep?"
"I never tried." She rests her chin on her fist and stares just past his head, absentmindedly.
"How are you holding up?"
She blinks, once then twice, giving him a perplexed stare. "Is there truly an answer to that question?"
It's his turn to blink. "I guess not."
"Ask me in a few days." Emily sighs defeatedly and looks around, ensuring she didn't wake any of the others. When she's satisfied they haven't been disturbed, she continues in a strained voice. "I can't … I can't stop thinking about those parents." She swallows a sob and her voice wavers. "It's cruel, what happened to that family. Both of them."
Hotch can only nod, because she's right, and he has no answers. She closes her eyes, tipping her head back, staring at the ceiling.
"Emily." Her name slides off his tongue like a poem in three syllables, and he waits until her eyes meet his. "We can't always win." He knows her guilt; he's been there before.
"We should have won this one, Hotch."
"I know."
They sit in resigned silence for the rest of the flight.
Solace Part 2
A week later, it's her turn to comfort him.
Things hit close to home literally and figuratively, when a little boy is abducted from a park in Centreville while on a field trip with his first grade class.
She knows the only thing he sees in his mind is Jack.
He's demanding of his team on this one - more so than his usual high standards - and they investigate, question, canvas, and interrogate relentlessly - and he expects nothing less than perfection from each of them. It's almost overwhelming, and emotions run high all around for 3 days.
In the end, it's still not enough, and they lose this one too.
Seventy-two hours after they take the case, it's Hotch who finds the body (Emily's right behind him when he does), 8 miles away behind an abandoned lot in Fairfax.
The anger in his face is unmistakable when he kneels next to the boy. It's what carries him through the next few hours on the scene, because if it weren't for his anger, he'd start to feel the other emotions - the fear for his own son, the guilt for not getting there in time.
This one hits him hard. He lashes out at the two uniformed cops who show up on the scene, lambasting them for their inexperience and insensitivity, before storming away with his mouth set in a firm line. It gathers a few looks from the rest of the officers and detectives on scene, semi aghast at the uncharacteristic display.
Ten minutes later, Emily finds him leaning against the suburban. She stands at a distance behind him for several minutes before she turns on her heel, because clearly, he's not ready to talk. "Get some air. I'll deal with the Fairfax sheriff."
He doesn't even hear her walk away.
...
It takes longer than normal to get the scene secured and things under control but it gets done, and Fairfax County PD takes over for the time being. There's nothing else for them to do at that moment.
She offers to drive back to the BAU, but he refuses in typical Hotch fashion. The Suburban inches down 95 towards Quantico through the thick afternoon traffic. From the corner of her eye she can see his tightly clenched jaw and death grip on the steering wheel.
He's silent for the first twenty-five minutes of their trip save for a brusque thanks when she hands him a water bottle from the side of the door.
"Are you alright?" She doesn't take her eyes off the road when she tentatively breaks the silence. She's afraid of what might be written on his face if she looks over.
Silence.
...
Hours later, they're exhausted once again, after presenting an updated profile and following new leads that ultimately lead them nowhere yet again. They pack it in and agree to look at it with fresh eyes early the next day. Hotch expects them at 7 AM.
Emily is on her way out when she sees the light on in his office, and before she can stop herself or come up with reasons why she shouldn't, she finds herself standing at the door of his office.
Garcia wasn't lying when she said he most likely lives here.
Sure enough, he's at his desk, staring at the open file before him. She's positive he's not actually reading the files, and her heart twists when her eyes float to a picture of Jack on his desk.
He doesn't say anything when he sees her. In fact, he barely acknowledges her presence.
"Want some company?"
He doesn't say yes, but doesn't say no either, just gives her a semi-blank stare. So, she slips over the threshold and drops into one of the chairs across from his desk, watching him from the corner of her eye. He snaps the file shut and rests his eyes on the heels of his hands in a rare display of emotion.
He hears his son's voice in his mind. Daddy, do you always get the monsters? He's heard it over and over since the moment he found the boy's body now almost eight hours ago. Two minutes later, he finally speaks. "Drink?"
"Sure."
Hotch reaches into an obscure drawer in his desk and produces a half empty, slightly dusty, bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He fills them both, passes one to her, and holds his to his lips.
It burns her throat on the way down. She hasn't even finished her glass before he refills his. She knows what's in his mind, because she's been to those dark places, too, many times before.
"We can't save them all, you know."
"I know."
Subtle
Things change between the two of them after Savannah and Centreville. He can't put his finger on it; she can't quite label it.
It's subtle, but it's there. A tentative understanding, or a mutual appreciation, perhaps.
He softens just enough that sometimes he even cracks a smile; her own walls come down an inch or two. She finds him and he finds her after long days (short days too, but those are far and few in between). They talk about cases, sometimes they drink. Sometimes they get takeout and put their heads together to finish the side of their job that often gets forgotten - reports, paperwork, the bureaucratic nonsense.
On the particularly bad days, they don't say anything at all.
Occasionally she brings her own bottle; sometimes they share. She's partial to vodka and gin; he prefers whiskey and scotch.
Sometimes they laugh. He (she) likes those times. He shows her pictures of Jack and she tells him about all the places she's visited while living with her mother as a teenager. With some prodding, she tells him about the ever-elusive Sin to Win Weekends in Atlantic City. When she swears him to secrecy, he laughs because she takes it incredibly seriously, but he appeases her, because he'd never admit it, but a small part of him is glad she shared that little secret with him instead of anybody else.
In some weirdly comforting way, it works.. And between the conversations they have (and more importantly the ones they don't have, the lines and boundaries between them begin to blur.
She doesn't fight it, and he doesn't question it. Maybe they don't need to.
Nostalgia
It's a Wednesday night when she takes him down memory lane.
"Do you remember when we first met?"
She's caught him off guard, in the way that only Emily can. The question is seemingly simple. The answer, however, is not.
Emily's laughing, because they've been debating the best ballads of the 80's for over a half hour after giving up paperwork for the night, leaving his desk and the floor covered with file folders. She's impressed by his knowledge, because it almost rivals her own. Almost.
"At the BAU?" Surely she doesn't mean that - that would be too easy. He should know her better than that by now.
"When you worked for my mom." There's a small grin playing at the corners of her mouth, as if she's daring him.
Maybe she is.
"From what I remember, you made quite the impression." Over time some of the details have faded, but if he's being completely honest, there isn't much about their initial meeting he doesn't remember. How could he forget?
It was his second month on the job. He's brand new, embarrassingly green and eager to please. Ambassador Prentiss takes no prisoners, and he's pretty sure what she's asking him to do is his first test. This has to be a joke.
He's about to plead his case when they're interrupted by a piercing, exasperated voice and the methodic thump of footsteps heading their direction from the hallway. "M-O-O-O-M! I can't believe this! I am not going on my Yale tour with a babysitter!"
Aaron whirls around to see a slim dark haired girl tearing into the room. She's wearing a very short skirt and platform shoes, a heavy amount of dark makeup, and her hair is a wild, crimped mess semi piled on the top of her head. She's fiercely determined and on a warpath, slamming the door shut behind her.
Ambassador Prentiss smiles sweetly at her daughter, then Aaron, and for a moment he's actually terrified of his new boss. She looks like she could take his head off and smile while doing it.
"Actually Emily, that's why I asked to talk to you. You're going with two babysitters."
Emily Prentiss glares at her mother, then at him. "You've got to be kidding me." She drops her bag onto the floor and dramatically throws herself into a chair. "Are you actually freaking serious? You can never just NOT embarrass me, can you?"
"Agent Hotchner, this is my daughter, Emily. Emily, This is Agent Hotchner, one of our new security guards. He's going to be helping Agent Davis keep an eye on you on the Yale trip. You made quite the introduction at Brown, if I remember correctly."
He recognizes the resentment in the Ambassador's face when she speaks to her daughter, mainly because she's seen it before in his own father. For a brief moment, he feels a pang of sympathy.
Her eyes widen incredulously, her face is a mix of mortification and rage. "That was a fucking accident, Mom. It's not my fault Melinda and I drank too much - "
The ambassador cuts her off quickly, her eyes shifting to Aaron. "Emily, dear, that's enough. I would just feel better knowing you're not getting yourself into any unnecessary predicaments while you're there."
"MO-O-O-M," she drags out the middle syllable again, and it's abundantly clear they've had many of these arguments over time. "Why are you so fucking embarrassing?"
Aaron awkwardly coughs into his fist, shifting uncomfortably in the chair next to Emily.
"Emily, your language is atrocious. I've taught you better than that." Ambassador Prentiss sits down at her desk, primly crossing her legs. "This is not a debatable matter. Agent Hotchner and Agent Davis are going with you. No ifs, ands, or buts."
Emily makes a dramatic show of rolling her eyes.
"Be careful," He murmurs quietly enough so that only she can hear. "They might get stuck like that."
She throws a withering stare in his direction, folding her arms across her chest. "This fucking sucks."
"You're leaving tomorrow morning at 8 AM sharp, Emily. For the love of God, please do something about that mess on your head. And cover yourself up - you look ridiculous."
Emily seethes, and Aaron wonders if it's too early to request a transfer.
...
"I never did thank you for getting me out of that party." She kicks her feet up onto the chair beside her, a small grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. There's something in her voice he can't place.
"You did actually, when I carried you out of the house in New Haven. And in the car."
"Those damn fireball shots."
"It was an interesting ride home." He decides to omit the rest of the details. Story for a different day.
She rolls her eyes sardonically. "I guess I didn't make a great first impression at Yale either."
"I think you turned out okay."
Philadelphia
Of all the cities they visit, Philadelphia is one of her favorites.
They're not even on a case this time. Instead, they're giving a lecture on the psychology of young serial killers to PhD psychology students at UPENN - Rossi owes an old professor friend of his a favor for proofing one of his latest books. They don't complain - it's practically a welcomed change from some of the emotionally tolling cases they've taken on lately.
As they wrap up the first day of the session (she can't remember a time their work day ended at 5:30 PM), everyone is in a good mood. Morgan goes to meet with a friend from Northwestern who is living in the area. JJ wants to check out some of the shops in Rittenhouse Square and drags a semi-reluctant Reid with her and promises to stop in one of the old bookstores along the way . Rossi is meeting his professor friend and his wife for dinner.
It's only when the rest of the team heads out for the evening they both realize it's just the two of them for the night.
"Don't get into too much trouble," Rossi winks as he climbs into a cab.
As if they could.
...
She meets him in the hotel lobby twenty minutes later after a quick outfit change.
"You look nice." He notices, with hidden appreciation, she's wearing the emerald green sweater.
"You look different." She can't remember the last time she hasn't seen him in a suit and tie.
He laughs - a real laugh that reaches his eyes.
As the sun goes down over the city, they walk around Independence Hall, past a few museums, down some charming cobblestone streets, and end up at Penn's Landing. It's a beautiful night; the boats are visible on the water - she wants to stop and look.
She leans over the railing, watching the boats sail past. "Do you ever think about getting out?"
"I'm a father, Prentiss. I don't have time to get out." He knows what she actually means, but going there is a topic he'd rather avoid.
She laughs softly. "Out of the BAU, I mean." Her eyes are still watching the boats.
"Sometimes." He shifts to let a family of five stand near the railing, and now he's standing close enough to her he gets a slight whiff of her honeysuckle shampoo. "For Jack. I think about going back to prosecuting." It's not a total lie, but this isn't about him, and he knows it's a test. She's waiting for his reaction. "You're thinking of leaving."
"Sometimes I consider it. There's nothing holding me back," Her eyes are still resting on the water. He wonders if that's intentional. "But that would mean leaving the team, and leaving you, and -" She cuts herself off almost instantly, as if she caught herself revealing a secret. "Nevermind," she says quickly, and even the near-dark he can see the subtle blush rising in her cheeks.
"Emily." Her first name rolls off his tongue, the three syllables that blend together so beautifully, and when she turns to face him, her heart starts to pound.
He's looking at her again - she's seen that look before. It's the one he's been giving her for the last few weeks. At first, it was after he'd had just enough liquor to feel bold. Then, it was in the mornings when she'd slide into the seat next to his at the table. She knows it. She knows the look well, because she gives him the same one.
He takes a step closer to her and now they're standing so close together she could rest her head on his chest. His hand brushes over her face, disappears into her hair and cups the back of her head. He pulls her face toward his, presses his lips to hers in a kiss.
He's gentle but commanding; his mouth covering hers. Emily kisses him back, an arm slipping around his waist as her mouth opens to his. His teeth graze against her lip with just enough pressure, his tongue explores her mouth and a small moan escapes from her. She shivers, because he's a damn good kisser, not that she's surprised.
Her forehead brushes against his; she's panting slightly. For the first time he notices how beautiful her eyes are, with the perfectly curled, long lashes. "We should probably head back before someone comes looking for us."
'You're probably right." And after he kisses her one more time, Philadelphia becomes one of his favorite cities too.
Games
They're playing with fire now.
Eventually, one of them will burn.
Nothing
Maybe not.
Nothing changes when they return from Philadelphia. In fact, it's like nothing ever happened at all.
Maybe, she thinks as she heads down the hallway and out of the BAU, ignoring the light on in his office, maybe it's for the better.
From his desk, he can hear the soft scrape of her shoes against the floor. He hears her quick goodbye to JJ and Reid, and as she leaves for the day, he reminds himself it's probably for the better anyway.
Blue Moons and Old Scars
Once in a blue moon, he wakes up in a cold sweat, and it's Foyet he sees and hears as he thrashes around his empty bed. The memories are vague - he doesn't remember much after the initial gunshot and initial plunge of the knife. He has no recollection of being dumped at St. Sebastian or what happened shortly after. Maybe he's better off that way. The scars he's been left with, all nine of them, are like souvenirs he never asked for.
Her nightmares come too, with irritating irregularity. Most of the time, it's the old cases that haunt her. Even the ones they've solved come back to visit every once and awhile with a vengeance. Sometimes she's fifteen again, laying on her back in a cold, sterile room in Italy, her knees covered by a sheet and Matthew's hand wrapped around hers, an occasional tear falling down her cheek. The only thing she feels when she wakes after those nightmares is emptiness. Those scars are on the inside.
Second Time Around
The team goes out for drinks on a Friday night in November, just a few weeks after Philadelphia.
It's light, fun, and by the time he arrives, she's already seated between Reid and JJ, deep in conversation.
He's always (secretly) admired the way she's been able to effortlessly solidify herself as a member of their team.. They love her, which is evident by the adoring looks Reid gives her, her instant bond with Morgan. The way she instantly clicked with JJ and Garcia. Even Rossi had taken to her quickly.
They (he) can't imagine this team without her. Which is why, despite wanting to kiss her again (and again after that), he reminds himself of all the reasons why he shouldn't. He has a bulleted list stored in his mind for safekeeping.
Distraction is a good idea. He orders a beer. She's drinking beer too, he observes casually, as her lips slide down over the neck of the bottle. Eyes up, he reminds himself (he's been doing that more and more lately), and thankfully, Rossi's sudden presence in the empty seat beside him is a welcome distraction.
He doesn't talk to her much that night. Emily ends up playing darts with Morgan. No one is surprised when she absolutely decimates him, and Morgan sidles back to the table with a sheepish grin.
Three beers later, and things start to wind down. It's been a long day (a long week, if they're being honest), and they decide to pack things in for the night.
When she begins to make her exit - paying her tab, saying her goodbyes - he goes for it.
"I can walk you out. I need to get going anyway. Jack's been at Jessica's all day." Hotch offers in an even toned voice, and only he notices the subtle turn of her head, the slight upturn of the corners of her lips. She's playing the game.
The game that has no winners.
It's so deceptively simple that no one even questions it.
She leads the way out the bar and into the dark, breezy evening. His hand finds the small of her back, and it rests there while they walk. Maybe she doesn't notice, or maybe she doesn't mind. He'd like to think it's the latter.
He asks her about her weekend plans (she doesn't have many -he's strangely relieved); she questions if Jack has a soccer game (an all day tournament, overkill for a six year old), and his hand still hasn't left her back when they've reached her car.
She clicks the button on her keys. "Thanks for the walk back. Tell Jack I said good luck. I'll see you on Monday."
And when he's quickly calculating how many hours stand between now and 8 AM on Monday when he'll see her again (it's about 57, not that he's keeping track), she steps forward, rises onto her tiptoes (because she's not wearing her regular heeled boots he normally sees her in), and kisses him.
It's chaste at first, a brush of her lips against his, her hand sliding up to cover his shoulder. It takes him by surprise but he recovers quickly. He slips an arm around her waist and licks the seam of her lips with his tongue. Her mouth opens and he deepens the kiss, using his body to press her against the car door. Her lips somehow taste familiar yet so incredibly new (because this is only the second time her lips have touched his); he reaches up and cups her face with his hand and explores her mouth with his.
She's the one who finally pulls away first, her breath coming a little faster than it was just moments ago, her eyes a little brighter. "Goodnight, Hotch." She leans in and presses one more kiss to his cheek before quickly spinning around and getting in the car.
His lips burn for the next two days.
Disaster
They don't address the kiss (or the first one, for that matter).
That would be too complicated.
They're already complicated enough on their own as it is.
Together they might be a disaster.
Fragile
A few days after the team trip to the bar, they find themselves back in the air, this time to Greenville, South Carolina.
It rains from the second they deplane in South Carolina until the moment they board again for Quantico.
They work nonstop for two days to find a duo targeting dark-haired women and murdering them in their cars in seemingly public places - grocery store parking lots, playgrounds, a hiking trail. He has to actively push her out of his mind every time he sees a photograph of yet another victim.
She isn't trying to avoid him, but on this trip they hardly see one another except for brief moments here and there. He handles press with JJ and works with the Greenville authorities while she teams up with Reid and Rossi to work the profiles and canvas the crime scenes.
On their third day in Greenville (how is it still fucking raining), they have to tell a 24 year old man named Sean that his wife of six months, (the unsubs' last victim before arrested) was murdered; they've found the body for him to ID and claim. Even though they've solved the case (again), this one doesn't feel like a win.
It's Emily who breaks the news to Sean in a claustrophobic waiting room. No matter how many times it happens, being the one to do it never gets any easier. Her heart slips into her throat when Sean folds in half and sobs uncontrollably in her arms.
Some days, her job really fucking sucks.
It's only after she lets go of Sean that she realizes he's been watching her the entire time.
Surrender
Much later that night, he finds her in the hotel bar, which is a generous description if he's being honest. It's more like a shelf with bottles of rail liquor on it and some bar stools thrown on the other side. Classy.
She's wearing an old UVA sweatshirt that has clearly seen better days, well worn and nearly threadbare in places. The glass before her is half full of clear liquid- vodka, if he had to guess - with beads of condensation sweating along the sides. Contemplative drinking, he deduces.
She hasn't been there that long, actually. It'd been late when they finally got back to the hotel, and after a hot shower she still wasn't able to sleep, which meant the next best thing was a drink. She barely acknowledges him when he sets his phone down beside hers on the bar, announcing his presence.
"Want some company?" He settles in the barstool next to her and absentmindedly flips through the slim drink list. It gives him something to do with his hands.. She doesn't say anything but passes her glass in his direction; an invitation for him to sit down beside her.
"How'd you find me?"
He lifts the glass to his lips and takes a long swig, setting it back down in front of her with a grimace. It's not vodka, but a very strong (and cheap) gin. "Lucky guess." When she doesn't answer, he tries again. There's only so many places you can be in a place like this."
"Touché" she responds dryly and takes a longer drink this time, making a similar face to his when she sets it down.
They don't talk much, at least not tonight. There's not that much to say after this one. The glass is refilled for them and it gets passed back and forth for more than an hour before she finally pushes it away from them both.
"You don't want to finish that?"
She doesn't look at him. Looking at him might be an invitation. An invitation she wants him to have, but doesn't necessarily want to give.
Behind her, the ridiculously out of place grandfather clock on the wall strikes eleven, and the metronomic chime every three seconds is deafening.
One. Two. Three.
"If I leave," she has to pause, because suddenly she can't breathe. "Would you follow me?" She thinks she knows the answer to her own question.
Four Five.
"Do you want me to follow you?" He thinks he knows the answer she's looking for.
Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten
"I think so."
Eleven. He takes the nearly empty glass and tips the rest down his throat.
"Let's go."
She takes a shaky deep breath; slowly she stands, as if testing her own footing, pushes the chair in and throws a few dollars onto the bar. She starts toward the elevator; he's right at her side, One foot in front of the other, two hundred steps, a push of two buttons, and they're alone.
They know what's about to happen when they cross that line; neither of them are about to stop it.
Somewhere in the three minute, thirty eight second journey from the bar to the elevator to the eighth floor to the fourth room on the right, his hand finds hers and her hand finds his. Her fingers fit perfectly through his.
He had a feeling they would.
And finally, when they're behind another closed door in her 8th floor hotel room, in the middle of the night in South Carolina, with the rain and thunder rattling against the windows, their lips meet for the third time, and their worlds start to spin.