A/N: Thank you for all of your sweet words, alerts, and favorites! Here is part 2 of 3. Fair warning - some parts of this are definitely leaning towards an M rating - nothing crazy explicit, but this is a heads up.
Blush
She presses her body against his, he pulls her closer to him to steady her on her feet. They've done this before, but this time is different. It's a slow and lush kiss; they're in no hurry. Behind closed doors they have nothing but time.
At least for a little while.
She moans in his mouth when he sweeps his tongue across her teeth and his hand winds around the back of her head, fingers tangling in her sleek hair. She deepens the kiss, sucking on his bottom lip, dueling with him for control. Their teeth clash; she cups the side of his face with her hand, his skin rough against her soft palm.
They both grow impatient -they're frantic for a few minutes; kissing and tugging at each other's clothes. She thinks he has too many layers, buttons, and zippers for this to be simple. He thinks she has too many clothes on in general. She's pulling his tie loose from his neck; his hands slide down her back and rest at the hem of her sweatshirt. When he stops kissing her for a split second she pulls away as if she's been burned; her eyes meet his questioningly.
He's waiting for her to give him permission, she realizes, and lifts her arms in an invitation.
Her sweatshirt is tossed onto the floor, along with his dress shirt and undershirt. She rids him of his pants; they find the floor along with his belt and boxers. He nearly rips off the thin shirt she's wearing underneath the sweatshirt, and that too is added to the growing pile.
"How many fucking buttons do you need," Hotch growls into her ear, impatiently navigating the four-button fly of her black jeans before pushing them down off her long legs. She laughs and lets her teeth sink onto his earlobe.
She's left in only a black lace bra and the matching black lace that covers the smooth skin of hips and between her legs. He looks at her appreciatively, running his fingers over the lace covering her chest. She backs up against the bed, pulling him along with her, and he moves them both down, cradling her back with his arm when she hits the mattress.
She blushes in his arms when his eyes trail over her body, and heat rises to her cheeks.
He must notice, because he pauses over her for a moment, kissing the pulse point of her neck, where her skin is warm and soft. "You're beautiful," he murmurs in her ear, reaching beneath her. He easily flicks the clasp of her bra open with one hand and tosses it behind him. When his hands reach down to slide the matching black lace down over her hips and down her legs, her eyes close.
Emily shivers under his gaze, and when he settles between her legs, his head bending to kiss her once more, she has to remind herself to breathe.
This is what she's been waiting for.
Explore
She's finally beneath him, completely naked, on her back, her knees angled up on either side of his hips, practically inviting him to fuck her. Hotch has to catch his breath before he can even formulate a coherent thought.
He takes a few more seconds to admire her, because like he told her just seconds before, she's beautiful.
He's certain he could die a happy man right then; despite the (many) times he's pictured this moment, it's better than anything he ever anticipated. Her skin flushes pink, a contrast against its usual pale and her chest is rising and falling in a steady staccato-like rhythm . He lowers himself down over her, bending his head to kiss her, and she kisses him back like she's been doing it all her life.
His body is a welcomed (and deliciously unfamiliar) weight on top of her, and she savors the feeling of him because she's ached for this (him, really) for so long. Her fingers wrap around his biceps and above her, he's watching her face with unusual tenderness, so she kisses him again, pulling him close to her.
He takes his time exploring her, wanting to remember every dip and curve, every mark, and every inch of her porcelain-like skin. Reverently, he moves his lips down her neck, her collarbones, and over her breast, his head moving between the two mounds and kissing her right over her heart along the way. He sucks one of her nipples into his mouth, while caressing the other in his free hand. She likes that, judging by the sharp inhale that emits from her and how her fingers tangle in his hair.
He continues his path down her body, lips smoothing over her ribcage and then the soft skin of her stomach. When he parts her knees, they fall to the sides and her lungs burn for more oxygen because she's thought of this particular moment for a while now too. She struggles to breathe; to think, and when she looks down at him, he's still kissing her stomach, until all of a sudden he's not.
She yelps when his mouth is no longer on her anymore.
"Impatient, are we?" He pauses for just another second before his hand disappears between her legs, and he hasn't even done anything yet but she lets out a keening cry.
When his fingertips are feather light between her legs, Emily breathes his name - his first name. Aaron, dragging out the second syllable. He slides a finger into her, then two, and realizes it's the first time he's ever heard her say his first name.
He increases the pressure of his thumb on her slick skin and moves in sweeping circles. Her legs spread wider for him as her hips lift off the bed, an unintelligible sound escaping from her throat that makes him almost uncomfortably hard. It only takes a few deliberate pumps of his fingers inside of her with a bit more pressure from his thumb before she cries out and every muscle in her body tenses, holding taut for a very long moment before she starts shaking. He strokes her through not once but twice, one right after the other. She rides it out against his hand and when the shaking turns into a tremble, he's right beside her, watching her intensely.
Synchronicity
Emily's still in a daze when he settles over her again, his hands on either side of her head. He's kissing her now - her shoulders, her chest, her neck - as she comes back to earth after the two back to back orgasms he's just given her.
His skin on hers feels like fire; his weight nearly makes her dizzy. He kisses her lips with bruising force.
Hotch takes both of her hands and presses them into the mattress above her head, giving a gentle squeeze, then slowly presses himself inside of her. She inhales sharply (it's been awhile since she's done this), and he covers her mouth with his once more and kisses her until he's fully sheathed.
"Open your eyes."
He waits until brown eyes meet. "You feel amazing," he whispers, his words just above her heart.
He doesn't move for several seconds, because it's been awhile for him too, and he doesn't want to blow it before anything even happens . Within moments, she's lifting her hips against him, impatient. One of her long legs curls around his back; her hand drifts to his hair.
"Aaron, please. I need you to move." it comes out as a whimper.
He teases with small shifts of his hips.
"Now," she demands.
When he finally begins to rock into her, slowly at first, she winds her arms around his neck and digs her heel into his hip.
It's better than she'd imagined. He's as meticulous in bed as he is in every other aspect of his life - his movements are deliberate, well timed, coordinated. She knows she won't last long like this, but she scrapes her nails down his back and lifts her hips in time with each thrust of his.
When she's close (judging by the noises she's making), he pins her hands above her head again with one hand and with his other hand reaches down between them where they're joined, and rubs those broad, sweeping circles over her slick skin with his thumb. He takes her over the edge once more before he thrusts into her one last time with a punctuating drive of his hips. When he finally spills into her, he collapses on top of her with a groan, his skin damp and his heart pounding against hers.
He's still inside of her when he brushes a wayward lock of hair from her eyes and they share a long, languid kiss.
Ache
Emily dozes off in his arms, Hotch's body curled around hers and their fingers linked together.
Her muscles ache in places she hasn't felt in awhile, and she can already tell she's going to be sore tomorrow.
The sound of the rain pelting against the windows of their hotel room lulls her to sleep in his arms.
He tucks his chin over her shoulder (he gets a whiff of honeysuckle in her hair) and kisses her temple. While he falls asleep, he wonders if she'll agree it wasn't a huge mistake.
Hotch wakes her just hours later with a series of kisses down her spine and over her hip. She can already feel the mounting soreness between her legs. She rolls onto her back and relaxes into the mattress and draws her knees up, turning her head to kiss him.
He has other ideas and she realizes what he intends to do when he throws the sheet off, which sends an instant chill through her. He winks at her, hands on her shins. "I didn't get a chance to do this last night," his voice is low; her body instantly aches for him once again.
He drapes one of her knees over his shoulder and then the other, spreading her open. Lowering his head, his lips find her inner thigh, and then the other. She digs her nails into the sheets and twists the fabric in her hands, watching him practically worship her.
First his fingers brush over her, once, twice, three times until she lifts her hips against his face, impatient. She's certain she can't wait much longer when she finally - finally - feels the warm press of his lips against her, her words are lost in her throat, and her legs shake on his shoulders at the contact.
The pressure of his tongue against her is almost more than she can handle, but he's slow and deliberate, taking his time and working her up slowly, with seemingly practiced ease. Broad strokes here, little flicks there. She undulates beneath him; he keeps one hand on her stomach to keep her still. The familiar tightening in her lower abdomen is almost immediate, she's close, she moans into the air, but as soon as she's about to come, he pulls back, despite her pleas for him to keep going.
He keeps her on edge like that for what seems like ever, repeating the almost tormenting pattern of building her up and holding her off. When she finally falls apart (it's one sweep of his tongue that gets her there), she throws her head back and she moans his name for the third time. Her legs tighten around his shoulders and her back arches off the bed so high he thinks she might break.
…
After Hotch goes to his own room to pack and freshen up, Emily rinses away the evidence of him and her in the shower. Even though the soapy water swirls down the drain, she can't erase him from her mind.
She gets dressed (the same jeans with the buttons from yesterday, she notices with a wry grin) and hurriedly meets the rest of the team in the lobby to head to the airfield. She gets coffee (maybe some caffeine will help her get it together) and pretends not to notice when he finally joins the rest of them.
He's as professional as ever, slightly aloof, and there's no difference between the Hotch she knew yesterday and the one she knows now. Not that she expects anything different. She just barely acknowledges his presence when he strolls past her with a casual headnod and "Morning, Prentiss."
Prentiss. She feels a small pinch of guilt and ignores the nagging ache that blooms in her chest.
Maybe sleeping with him will be a mistake.
This game they're playing, she reminds herself, rarely has a winner.
Little Lies
It's a one time thing, out of her system now, she lies to herself on the plane home from Greenville a few hours later. She sits with her back to him so he can't see the blush that rises in her cheeks when her mind drifts back ten or so hours.
She spends the entire flight pushing it (him) out of her mind. It doesn't matter, because the soreness between her legs is a constant reminder on its own, and when she closes her eyes, the only thing she can see (and feel) is his body against hers, and that goddamn mouth of his.
It can't be anything more than what it was.
It's out of her system now. His too. It won't happen again.
Bigger Little Lies
Except it does happen again, this time in St. Louis less than a week later.
She gave herself a stern talking-to before they landed that under no circumstances she would end up in his room (or he in hers). That quickly goes out the window as she's hardly gotten to her room, out of her work pants and into something more comfortable when she hears the knock.
She's on top of him this time, and from this angle, he feels bigger than he did last time (if that's possible), and she curses inwardly because she's going to be sore yet again tomorrow. He seems to appreciate the view; she observes casually as she rocks her hips over him, back and forth, setting the pace and speed. His hands smooth over her waist, coming to rest on her breasts, cupping their weight and leaning up to pull one of her nipples in his mouth.
She comes twice riding him before he's even close to finishing. She says a silent prayer towards the ceiling that this hotel has thick walls because her first orgasm hits her fast, and she hasn't even recovered from the first before it happens again.
When she's still coming down from her second high, he flips them over easily, pressing her into the mattress. She's on her back now (he likes when she's on her back, too) and he can control the depth and pace of his movements, and he comes hard after a minute of forceful thrusts that make her breasts bounce in his face and her back arch off the bed.
It's better than the first time, but this will be the last time.
Spoiler
St. Louis isn't the last time, either.
Secrets
Two can keep a secret, right?
No feelings, she tells herself, because when you start having feelings, the secrets are inevitably revealed.
No feelings, he tells himself, because he's learned over time that it's easier to be lonely without secrets.
No feelings, they tell themselves as they acquiesce to each other once more in the middle of the night in yet another dark hotel room, one more secret between them.
Education
In Orlando, he learns about one of her hidden talents. She takes him in her mouth, on her knees, in the hotel room, and he sees stars when he hits the back of her throat. He fists a hand in her hair and clenches the other around the cheap curtains as her mouth takes him in and out. When she looks up at him, eyes ringed with dark eye makeup, red lips wrapped around him, her hair askew, he knows he's done for, and he spills into her mouth with little warning.
...
It's like a monsoon in Hoboken a week later when he holds her up with one arm, her back against the wall by the window looking out over the Hudson River. The room is lit up by a flash of lightning, and he hooks her leg around his waist while nipping at her shoulder. He learns just how easily she bruises. She already has finger-shaped marks on her hipbones from the night before, and now she'll have them on her shoulders too -they'd barely made it through the door of his hotel room before he'd turned her around and over the bed. He makes a mental note to be more gentle next time, because they don't bother denying there will be a next time.
...
Syracuse isn't one of his favorite places (hers either, for that matter). But they are together yet again. It's almost a given by now. She goes to his room with a few beers tucked under her arm, and they eat room service in bed while watching reruns of Frasier on the hotel TV. It doesn't take long for him to know something is off, but she's more reticent than usual, so he doesn't push it.
When she finally sinks down on him after a very long (and unsuccessful) day of trying to hunt one more killer (an arsonist this time) he wonders if she'll ever trust him enough to tell him what goes on in her mind instead of just what's going on around her.
He cups her breasts in his hands and lets her have her way. She rocks her hips in a fluid, slow wave until her muscles start to flutter, then tighten around him. She gathers speed and she feels his hands tighten around her hips, indicating that he too is close. And when she is about to break, he sits up and pulls her to him, capturing her mouth with his.
When they eventually come (first her, with him close behind), she stifles her own moans with her lips pressed to his, with his heart pounding against hers.
…
They're in Salt Lake City when he (finally) asks her about her tattoo. He's seen it before. In fact, he's looked at it each time he's seen her naked. He's lost track of that number by now. On the blade of her left shoulder, right over the bone, is a series of three arrows, pencil thin, the tips fluting out, along with the word inoltrare in a delicate script that he recognizes instantly as her own handwriting.
"It's been years," her voice is low in his ear when he asks; she's laying on her back with their fingers laced together in the small space between them in the bed. "I got it in Italy when I was 16, right before I left. It means forward." She then says the Italian pronunciation, and his cock twitches at the sound of the words rolling off her tongue.
"Why did you leave?"
"It was time to go." There's longing in her voice, unmistakable but distant. He immediately senses there's more to the story than what she's telling him. It's what she doesn't say that tells him what he needs to know about her time in Italy, for the time being.
After several minutes, he turns her over to look once more, because he's fascinated by the indelible black of the ink against her skin. In the moonlight, it's barely visible, but he knows where to find it. He kisses it three times - one kiss for each arrow- and gets a subtle whiff of vanilla on her skin.
"Did it hurt?"
She can feel his eyes on her; she stares at the wall instead. "Other things have hurt worse."
Emotional Souvenirs
They have lots of conversations, just not the ones that matter.
Between briefings in the bullpen, friendly banter in the jet, and the day to day casual exchanges, there are so many words between them she sometimes forgets what they're actually doing behind closed doors. It's all so normal, until it's not.
There are no definitions to what they're doing. It's better that way, she tells herself. Definitions will just cause problems. Definitions aren't practical.
Maybe if they could give it a definition - a label - or some kind of meaning- they could stop for good, file it away, and move on. Put it in the past and leave an emotional souvenir in its place.
She has plenty of emotional souvenirs, some she's proud of, some not so much.
He might just be her next one.
Decency
In Tuscaloosa, their unsub is a twenty-four year old woman named Emma who is systematically murdering the rapists of women in her sexual assault support group, including her own. Sometimes, motivation needs no explanation. While Emily doesn't feel sympathy for the criminals they're trained to profile and find, occasionally she can understand their reasoning.
When Emma is arrested after a grueling four day search, it's a twist of irony as the handcuffs lock around the young woman's scarred wrists.
They need a confession, insists the Tuscaloosa detective they've been working with for the duration of the case. He's had little luck interrogating Emma, or getting any form of admission. Emily's not surprised, judging by his brusque techniques, and Hotch agrees to interrogate Emma from a different angle. That's what you people are here for, the frustrated detective practically spits in their faces when he emerges, unsuccessful.
Forty-five minutes later, they get their confession. Emily watches Hotch with rapt attention from the one-way mirror just outside the interrogation room. When Emma gives up the location of the remaining 4 men she's killed (on top of one they've just found) there are tears streaming down the young woman's face. It's over.
"Agent Hotchner?" Emma's voice shakes over the rattle of the handcuffs in her lap as Hotch stands up to exit the room. "You're a decent man, you know."
Emily swallows the lump in her throat she's been holding since the morning, glad for the one way glass ensuring he couldn't see her face.
…
They depart the Tuscaloosa Police Station a few hours later. Emily watches Emma be loaded into a police car transporting her to the county prison.
The world, she thinks, is a fucking unfair place.
...
Later that night, she lays in the dark with her head on his chest, the white bedsheet wrapped loosely around them.
"You're thinking about Emma." It's not a question. He knows. Hotch kisses her temple and traces patterns on her bare skin with his index finger, coming to rest over the arrows on her shoulder blade.
"She had a point, you know." Her voice is barely over a whisper.
"What do you mean?" His fingers drum against her arm.
"Not all men are like you."
"Like what?"
"Decent."
Deny
They are surprisingly adept at keeping things on the down low, to her surprise, and his too.
No one suspects a thing. Better for everyone involved, she reminds herself when she erases yet another night off her skin with some cheap hotel shower gel, and makes a half-hearted attempt to get him out of her mind.
It's been getting harder to remind herself that this game they're playing is eventually going to end, without a winner, because that's how these things go.
Each morning (after) when they regroup and debrief, she puts a few feet of distance between them and pretends it hasn't been mere hours since she left his bed. It's as if nothing ever happened at all, and no one is the wiser.
It's easier to deny it to herself when everyone else is blissfully unaware.
Contemplation
She wonders just how long they can keep this up, or who will get hurt first, as they fly home from Lansing a few weeks later.
He sits across from her on the plane; she pretends to read, turning pages every few minutes, but her attention is far from the book. For the last fifteen minutes, she's watched him pick up his phone, type a few words, read it, shake his head, and put his phone down.
When her phone vibrates in her lap, her suspicion is confirmed. Her eyes narrow at the short message. He's never asked her to come over before, and it's certainly a terrible idea.
Against her better judgment, she responds with two letters - ok, and instantly pushes her feelings aside because, well, Lansing sucked, and she doesn't want to feel anything for awhile.
They're sure everyone else is gone from the parking lot before she follows him home to Alexandria, because they're still keeping secrets and playing with hearts.
Seconds after he unlocks the door, they're a storm of limbs, dark hair, and clashing teeth. His hands are greedy; hers are desperate. They don't even make it out of all of their clothes - her bra is falling off one arm; he's still wearing his button down, his tie pulled loose, a few of the buttons ripped off.
Within minutes they're on the ground, and he fucks her on the living room floor. It's hard and fast, and when his muscles finally tense, she's right there with him, falling over the edge.
Hours later, when he's fast asleep on the couch, she twists out of his embrace and slips quietly out the door into the night without a look back. She wears bruises on her hips and knees for a week afterward. The ones on her heart have been there for awhile. They're not going away anytime soon.
Stay
He wakes up alone one morning in Providence. This is the third time in a row she hasn't stayed.
Emily doesn't give him a reason in the fleeting moments he has with her right before the team reconvenes in the hotel lobby.
In fact, she doesn't acknowledge his presence at all until they're seated around a conference table, almost an hour later. They've been going at victimology for awhile - hoping to give something - anything - to the Providence Police Department to help them get to the bottom of this case.
She's only half paying attention when she realizes he's even talking to her.
"Prentiss?" His tone suggests this isn't the first time he's had to say her name, and she suddenly has five sets of eyes on her. Morgan slides his coffee cup in her direction and JJ quickly asks if she's alright. She appreciatively takes a sip of Morgan's coffee and placates JJ - of course she's fine - it's not like she can tell them the truth, anyway.
"Sorry," she says distractedly, flipping a page in the file she hasn't even looked at since they sat down. "What did you say?"
Hotch repeats himself, his patience wearing thin. She recovers quickly as if nothing even happened, and for the time being, everyone's attention switches back to their task at hand.
He makes a mental note to finally bring it up later that night.
...
"You could stay," Hotch says much later as she rests at his side, her body still limp against his, almost a full hour after he'd made her come for a third time. This time was in the shower, with her back pressed against the cool marble, the spray beating down on them both and nearly flooding the bathroom floor.
He wasn't going to bring it up after the day they had, but against his better judgment he does. It's an immediate regret as her body tenses against him.
"That'd be a waste of the BAU's hotel accommodations budget." She sighs into his chest, her voice laced with a trace of sadness that doesn't go unnoticed.
Hotch laughs softly, tightening his arm around her back. "I write the BAU budget, you know." He presses a kiss to her dark head. "They have plenty of money. Trust me."
Emily threads her fingers through the dark hairs on his chest. "It's better if I don't."
"Em-" He attempts to argue, but she's too quick for him and she's all of a sudden straddling his waist, the sheet thrown to the side.
"Stop talking," she murmurs, rocking her hips and capturing his lips with hers, rendering him speechless.
Seven hours later, he wakes up alone again.
...
Hotch corners her in the hotel lobby, coming up behind her as she gets a cup of coffee. "Emily."
She whirls around, some coffee splashing out of the cup and onto her dark blouse. "Jesus Christ, Hotch. You scared me."
He immediately notices the dark circles under her eyes and passes her a napkin to blot the coffee off her shirt. "Why did you leave?" It comes out more harshly than he intended, and he sees the flash of indignation across her face.
"Hotch," she begins, looking around to ensure no one is within earshot.
"Answer my question, Emily."
"I couldn't sleep. I went for a drink and took my key instead of yours."
He's about to call her out - It's a bold faced lie, and they both know it, but Morgan and Reid are approaching, and she stiffens at the sight of their teammates approaching.
"Waking up next to you makes it harder to take back." She turns on her heel sharply, moving away from him as quickly as she can. His eyes remain glued to the back of her head as he sips his own coffee, wondering just what have they gotten themselves into.
History
"Hotch."
Immediately, he knows something is wrong.
It's late when he looks up from the blizzard of paperwork he's been slowly chipping away at for the last several hours. He hadn't even heard her on the stairs. She's wrapped in a thick black jacket that engulfs her body, making her look much smaller; her hair is wet (it's been raining nonstop for the last few days); her eyes are blank. Something is wrong.
The scene feels eerily familiar.
Emily stands in the doorframe, still as a statue. Her face is a collage of ambivalence and something that looks oddly like relief. "John Cooley is dead."
It takes thirty seconds before he makes the connection.
Oh. John Cooley. The Vatican. Father Silvano. Yes, he remembers now.
There had always been more to that story than what she'd chosen to tell him. That much he knows. Then again, things had been much different then. He'd watched from afar as she leaned on Dave and Morgan for support during the days she'd spent mourning her friend while trying to find answers about his death. He certainly hadn't been much help - only stood in her way until he'd finally pulled a few strings right before it was too late.
That was before they started gambling with each others' hearts.
"What happened?"
"I got a call from the DC police about an hour ago. He .. they … his neighbor found him dead in his apartment. They're thinking it was a heart attack but because of … everything … they want to look into it."
"What do you need?" He already knows he won't like her answer.
"I want to check it out." Her voice trembles. "I need to … know …" Emily trails off, because she's not even sure what she needs at this point, except that she wants to get the hell out of his office. Why she even came in the first place, she's not sure. Ask for forgiveness later.
"Do you think that's a good idea?" he speaks too soon, and she recoils as if she's been slapped.
She bristles at the unintentional judgement in his voice. It is a bad idea, she knows that much, but it's John, and though she owes him nothing, she can't just let it go.
She turns sharply on her heel, heading toward the door. "Nevermind. Forget it."
"Emily."
Her back stiffens; she doesn't turn around, but shifts her weight from foot to foot.
"I'm sorry. That was out of line. Take the time you need. If I can be of any help - "
Her eyes meet his for a brief second. "Just please keep this between us."
She's gone before he can even come up with a response.
…
They get the report from the coroner five days later.
John's death is ruled an overdose. In all honesty, Emily's not surprised. She's known him long enough to know his demons didn't disappear when they arrested Father Silvano that night in Georgetown. Despite her feelings towards him, a small piece of her heart erodes as she looks through the report.
She avoids Hotch (and the team) the rest of the afternoon and takes solace at her desk, burying herself in a few hours of work. It's only when she hears the scrape of shoes down the steps does she take her eyes off the screen she's been staring at. She doesn't look up, but she doesn't have to because he's now standing at the side of her desk, shifting from foot to foot.
"Emily."
Looping a piece of dark hair behind her ear, she lifts her head to meet his gaze. The concern is there, clear as day, along with something else she can't place - curiosity, maybe? She never did tell him the full story.
"You should go home. You've been here for hours."
"You should take your own advice."
He doesn't miss the bite in her tone. "I saw the report. I'm sorry about John." He pauses for a moment, before lowering his tone. Is there anything I can do?"
If that isn't a loaded question. "No. I'm just finishing up here and I'm heading out. Been a long day."
"You want to get some dinner … or something?" It's a long shot, but he goes for it anyway.
She laughs, but she's not smiling. "That seems out of our wheelhouse, don't you think?" Part of her wishes he'd just … leave her alone.
What she's saying isn't technically wrong, and the brutal honesty stings more than he thought it would. " Figured I'd save you the trouble." And, before he can stop himself, the words fall out. "We've all heard about your cooking anyway … so it's the least I can do."
She blinks twice, and for the first time in a week she attempts something that resembles a smile. "I appreciate the concern, Hotch, but I'll be fine. You've done more than enough already." She shuts the lid of her computer and slips into her jacket. "Really."
Revelations
He shows up at her door a few hours later with a large brown paper bag under his arm.
"You shouldn't have come all this way." She's wearing a loose sweater, black leggings, and slippers. His first observation is that she looks like hell - pale, with dark circles under her eyes.
"Thought you might be hungry. Haven't seen you eat much all week." On second thought, he realizes he hasn't seen her eat anything all week.
"Hotch," Emily begins, her voice laced with uncharacteristic exhaustion. "I'm really not in the mood. I just want to have a drink and go to bed."
"Can't drink on an empty stomach." He shifts the bag from one arm to the other.
"Really, this isn't necessary." She crosses her arms over her chest, and even though he's seen her in much less, she suddenly wishes she had on a thicker sweater.
"Emily, it's just dinner. You can kick me out as soon as we're done. I promise."
She hesitates a moment, then finally concedes because he's almost as stubborn as she is. He's not going anywhere; she's not off the hook. She opens the door a little wider. "Only if we can watch Seinfeld while we eat."
"Deal."
...
After some of the best Mediterranean food she's had in a very long time (and the most she's eaten all week), she finally tells him the full story of John Cooley.
There are some things he doesn't (and shouldn't) know. She wasn't planning on telling him, certainly not now. But he's there, in her apartment, and they're suddenly joking over sitcom reruns and falafel (two of her favorite things). It feels so normal and it's enough for her to feel something besides the nagging ache she's been suppressing since last week.
Despite the relative ease of it all, it's what isn't said that hangs over them. She knows he's suspicious - he's been glancing in her direction every few moments since she let him in her apartment almost two hours ago. She feels a small pang of guilt- He's done all he can to make the last few days even remotely tolerable for her and she's tired of pretending everything is fine.
It's only as he clears away the takeout containers and refills her wine glass that she works up the nerve to finally tell him.
"There's something you should know." She's hesitant; this might be what finally pushes him away.
Even though it's been twenty some years, it's difficult to find the right words, or know where to start. Some of it he's pieced together over time- her struggle to fit in, living in Italy with her mom. He's seen her yearbook picture; he knows about the rebellious streak that came after Italy - he witnessed that first hand for a period of time. But he listens with rapt attention, his eyes never leaving her, despite her inability to meet his.
"We moved around a lot when I was a kid, because of my mom's postings." She swallows hard; eyes searching the wall beyond his head for something - anything - to focus on - besides his face "When you're fifteen, that's all you want, and you'll do almost anything."
Anything. It makes her cringe, because if she closes her eyes, she's back in the dark alley in Rome, the air thick with cigarette smoke and John smelling like cheap wine, sloppily kissing her neck, hands fumbling with the button on her jeans.
"I got pregnant." She draws her knees up to her chest, feeling very small, and she twists the hem of her sleeve in her fingers. "John was obviously not happy, because … well … " she trails off. "Yet he's the one who insisted nothing would happen. But I couldn't keep it."
Hotch's throat instantly feels thick, because he has a sickening feeling he knows where she's headed..
"Matthew found a doctor; he took me there, and he held my hand the whole time." Emily pushes her hair behind her ear absentmindedly. "It only took ten minutes. It was quick."
She looks up from her lap, and for the first time since she's started talking, her eyes meet his. "I still remember every second of those ten minutes."
"Emily," he starts, reaching for her hand, which she pulls away.
"They've advanced the technology over the years, or so I've heard. I guess that's a good thing … for all the fifteen year olds who get knocked up in Italy while living with their diplomat mother." She laughs bitterly, pressing her hands over her eyes as if scrubbing the memory out of her brain.
"You shouldn't have gone through that alone."
"I wasn't alone. I had Matthew … but … Matthew was really messed up. John was too … in a different way. We all were... We were this little messed up triangle. It was bound to end badly … no matter what." She rakes a hand through her hair, eyes searching his face, looking for judgement, disgust, anything, but that isn't what she finds.
Instead, he looks almost regretful, his mouth pressed into a thin line. "Emily, I'm so sorry."
"Don't be. It's not something that comes up in casual conversation," she shrugs. "It feels like a lifetime ago … and sometimes it feels like it was yesterday."
"You made the right choice." Hotch silently admonishes himself for never connecting the dots awhile ago. Maybe it explained some of the Emily he'd met all those years ago in the Ambassador's office.
She looks surprised. "No one's ever told me that before." She then realizes the only other person who knows about any of this (besides Matthew and John, of course) is Rossi, but she leaves that small detail to herself.
"It's true." This time when he reaches for her hand, she doesn't pull away. "Sometimes we're put in impossible situations with no easy answer. We do the best we can and keep moving forward. It sounds like that's what you did, because you had no other choice."
He's thinking of Foyet, Haley, and Jack, of course. Her fingers squeeze around his. The right words never come, but for once, words aren't needed at all.
Peace
Hours later, Emily awakens to the sound of rain hitting the windows. Her eyes adjust to the dim light from the television, still on, the low hum of late night infomercials shaking her from her sleep-induced haze.
It's late … or is it early? She opens her eyes a bit more, squinting at the clock; she can just barely make out 1:58 AM. Next to her, Hotch is sound asleep, his legs outstretched on the coffee table, head resting on a pillow, his arm tucked beneath her. They'd fallen asleep. She can't even remember dozing off, but there's a blanket over both of them and a pillow wedged under her back.
She can't bring herself to wake him, and she's exhausted. Maybe the last few nights of minimal sleep have finally caught up with her.
When she settles back at his side, her head tucked against his chest, she feels a strange sense of peace as the rain lulls her to sleep once again.
Ponder
They're giving a profile in Akron (an internet predator this time) when he decides fucking her behind closed doors in shitty hotel rooms isn't enough. He's known for awhile now, if he's being truly honest with himself.
He knows her body better than he knows his own at this point. He's learned some other things over the last few months. She carries her baggage well - probably better than he carries his own. She's complicated, stubborn, untrusting and even cynical. Despite that, she's damn near brilliant at her job, invaluable to their team (and to him), and to lose her would be a devastating loss.
He doesn't just want to fuck her. He wants to love her - hell, he's certain he already does.
It's not part of the rules, but a risk he's willing to take, even if the odds are against him.
Even if it could be their demise.
Stay Part 2
When Hotch wakes up in Akron the next morning, Emily's still curled beside him. There's about six inches of space in the bed between them, an invisible boundary she hasn't given him permission to cross, at least not yet.
But she's still there.
It's a start. He'll take it.
Nerve
Maybe they should work backwards and start with dinner. A real dinner, one that's served on real plates in a restaurant with normal conversation, instead of styrofoam containers surrounded by file folders of deranged criminals.
It goes against all the rules of their game.
When he finally works up the nerve to ask, (back in Quantico a few days later), he finds her brewing coffee on a gloomy Tuesday afternoon on a rare, but well-deserved, quiet day in the BAU.
When he asks if she'd like to have dinner with him next week (because he's headed to Austin for a conference with Rossi in a few days) her eyebrows disappear into her hairline for a brief fleeting second, and her cheeks turn a shade of pink he's never seen before.
He rambles nervously, because silence might make her change her mind, and when she eventually nods her head in agreement, he feels something oddly similar to relief.
"How's 7? I can pick you up."
She agrees, and forgets the mug of coffee on the counter when she makes her exit back to her desk.
He damn near smiles for the rest of the day.
Cease
They take risks every day.
They acknowledge it, process it, categorize it. It's part of their job - practically second nature at this point. It's relatively simple to do in theory. But entirely different when in practice.
Three days after Hotch and Rossi return from their conference in Austin, the DC Narcotics squad contacts the BAU for support on a drug raid in Manassas. It's not their usual case, but Morgan owes a favor to a friend in the DEA and things are somewhat slow.
Emily has a bad feeling about this going badly from the second they arrive at the abandoned storage shed. Hotch and Morgan lead the raid while the rest of the team provides tactical support from a distance, ready to go in if things go downhill.
The entire thing is seamless - and it shouldn't be. Something just isn't right. It's too quiet … too easy.
Within minutes, it's abundantly clear they're being set up, and it's too late when they discover the place has been rigged to blow up. Run, one of the narcotics squad members yells, and it's pure pandemonium for twenty three agonizing seconds.
She watches in pure horror as the building goes up in flames, and her world stops and everything goes dark.
Run
Morgan walks away with nothing but scrapes, a few stitches from a piece of shrapnel, and a perforated eardrum. He'll be fine.
Hotch, on the other hand, is a completely different story. He's taken to the hospital with a serious concussion and loss of consciousness, second degree burns on his arms, and smoke inhalation. Rossi drives her to the hospital, and if the look on his face is any indication of awareness, she's certain their secret won't be a secret for much longer.
It doesn't matter anyway.
The doctors say he's lucky, but he's gotten lucky before (Foyet suddenly comes to her mind) and she can't help but question if next time his luck will run out.
There's always a next time in their line of work - it's not a question of if, but when.
She sits beside him in the hospital, never taking her eyes off of him. It feels nauseatingly familiar - she's been in this same spot before - but this time the knot in her stomach isn't fear of him not waking up, it's dread for when he does.
When he does wake up hours later, the chair next to his bed is empty.
Gone
I can't do this anymore, she tells him in the dark vestibule of her apartment building several days later when he's home from the hospital.
She's glad she can't see his face when she turns away, her breath visible in the bitterly cold air.
If he saw hers, he'd see the tears glistening in her eyes.
Emily repeats it to herself over and over, as if she'd forget. You can't do this. You can't do this. This has gone too far. This has gone too far.
She can't do this anymore. Not when she could lose him. She's almost lost him twice now.
She wouldn't recover if she lost him again.