A/N : My apologies for the delay - I was REALLY hoping to have this up at the end of June, but life got in the way and somehow within the last two months or so I moved across a few state lines and got a new job AND bought a house, renovated it, and moved, so things have been crazy to say the least, and continue to be. Here is part 3 of 3. Enjoy 3
Fallacy
Three weeks later, she still sees his face when she closes her eyes. At first it's easy to compartmentalize, because Hotch is on medical leave for two weeks, and things are overall pretty quiet at the BAU. There's a few cases - local ones - Baltimore, Woodbridge, Arlington - nothing too far, and it's a much needed relief for all of them.
Emily attempts to act normal at work despite the pestering ache in her chest. She jokes with Morgan, discusses nerdy sci-fi movies with Reid. She debates Rossi over wine and pasta pairings, and gently brushes Garcia and JJ aside when they attempt to set her up (again) with Mick Rawson. Apparently he's been asking about her. Great.
When Hotch returns, he's cold and terse to all of them and seemingly a shell of himself.
He spends most of his time in his office, spending as little time in their presence as possible . Everyone else chalks it up to (some post-traumatic stress from the accident and stays out of his way, hoping with time he'll return to his old self. Except, he doesn't.
Rossi, a bit more astute, seems to sense something else might be off, and starts asking the questions Emily can't quite answer. She starts to avoid Rossi too, because he's just a little too curious for her liking and seems to sense her unease just might have something to do with the current situation. Rossi is, however, the only one who has any luck with getting through to Hotch, and makes it his personal mission to figure out the sudden shift.
On more than one occasion, Emily completely avoids the older man's eyes each time he descends the steps from Hotch's office, shaking his head and sitting down at his desk with a heavy sigh. On those days, the guilt starts to creep in and her mind starts to race.
Enough
Another three weeks pass. His body heals relatively quickly from the accident (he's still a little stiff because he's not 25 anymore) but his heart and mind are another story. Things improve minimally at work, but only because it was starting to become blatantly obvious something was off. He acknowledges her presence and works with her on cases when he has to, does the bare minimum for the sake of the team. There's no denying the shift, yet everyone else is seemingly in the dark as to the real reason why. Even Rossi has backed off a bit.
She doesn't blame him. How can she? As she's known, the game has no winners, only losers. He partners with Morgan in the field, and that is somewhat of a recipe for disaster - they butt heads frequently now, clashing over tactical issues and profiles and case decisions. Emily is often left to diffuse a disgruntled Derek each time he clashes with Hotch.
On the forty-sixth day after she stood outside his house, ending whatever they never claimed to be, she knows she's made a big mistake.
...
At 10:39 PM later evening, she texts him - we need to talk . At 11:43, he opens his front door, looking worse for wear, but lets her in after a brief pause and nothing more. He looks equal parts rumpled, dazed, and uncharacteristically baffled at her presence. "I hope I didn't wake you."
"You didn't." Hotch doesn't mention the fact that sleep is somewhat of an anomaly these days. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest and looks her up and down. He quickly observes how tired and drained she looks. "What are you doing here?"
Emily scrapes the ground with the toe of her shoe. "I don't know." She half expects him to shut the door in her face, but he doesn't, instead opening it wider and lets her in.
The house is eerily quiet. She looks around expectantly, eyeing the half-finished art projects on the kitchen table, a soccer ball in the corner, Jack's backpack slung across a chair, a few wayward cups and plates that haven't quite found a home.
"Jack is at a friend's. 6th birthday sleepover," he says quickly, stuffing his hands in his pockets as she peers around the kitchen, turning in a slow circle."Do you want a glass of wine?"
She shakes her head. "I shouldn't. I have to drive home." On second thought, maybe it would take the edge off. "Actually, a glass of wine sounds good."
He nods stiffly, pouring her a glass of something red (he'd purchased it with her in mind a few days before he almost got blown up) and a glass of whiskey for himself.
Emily sits on his couch, picking at what's left of her fingernails, wine glass perched on the coffee table. Hotch's eyes don't leave the television, which is muted but playing an old Superbowl from the 90's. Interesting choice, she muses inwardly. He's not actually watching it though, she's noticed. He has his glass of whiskey in both hands, never actually taking a sip. His right knee just barely brushes her left.
"Why are you here, Emily?"
After five full minutes of silence, her voice is small. "I think I made a mistake."
Absolution
She's still tearing at her fingernails, taking a sip of wine every few minutes to settle her racing mind, when her name on his lips shakes her from her reverie.
"Emily."
Brown eyes meet brown eyes. His hand finds hers, his thumb brushes the top of her hand.
"I'm sorry."
"I know." He leans over, ignoring the lingering pain in his side, and brushes a wayward piece of dark hair behind her ear.
Emily shifts closer to him on the couch, resting her chin on his shoulder. "What do we do?"
"I don't know."
"Maybe we could … start again?" She stares at her knees, twisting the wine glass between her fingers.
"How do we do that?"
She blinks; her head tilts to the side, choosing her words carefully. "We could start with that dinner."
Beginnings
The game is in the fourth quarter when they pull apart, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. She's pressed into the sofa, a pillow beneath her head, one hand trailing lazily down his back.
"Shit," she mutters, glancing at her watch. "I need to … I need to get going." She pats her jacket pockets for her keys and phone, only to realize they'd both ended up on the floor.
"Do you want to stay?" Hotch reaches for their abandoned glasses on the coffee table, not daring to look her in the eye.
"I can't," She replies quickly, because that doesn't seem to bode well.
"You've been drinking, and it's late," he says pointedly. "Might be better to stay."
"I had one glass of wine, Hotch. I'm not drunk." She blanches. She doesn't want to admit it, but he's right. She's tired , and even though it was just one glass, her head feels fuzzy.
"You look like you're about to pass out."
She rolls her eyes, but concedes with a sigh. "Fine. You're right. Alright. I can sleep on the couch."
"You're not sleeping on the damn couch, Emily." He looks amused at her discomfort before he slowly stands, and she doesn't miss his subtle wince.
It's not like they haven't shared a bed before.
"I don't have any clothes," she attempts feebly, shifting back and forth.
"I think that can be figured out."
…
His old FBI t-shirt hits her midthigh, and the sweatpants are so loose they fall right off. She decides to forego the sweatpants and pulls at the t-shirt to stretch it down a little further. Fuck it. It's not like he hasn't seen it all before.
But when she finds him in the master bedroom, tossing pillows to the floor and pulling the comforter back, she self-consciously pulls the t-shirt further down her legs.
What's ironic about all of this is that his own bed might be the one place they haven't had sex.
The last time she came to his house they hadn't even made it up the stairs, let alone his bedroom.. They'd fucked on the living room floor, half dressed and desperate. She'd left shortly after, as if it never even happened.
But that was then.
Instead of undressing her once she's settled beside him, Hotch kisses her goodnight like he's been doing it all his life and flicks off the light.
When her eyes close, his arm curls around her protectively. For the first time since that ill-fated day in Manassas, she sleeps soundly through the night.
...
When Emily awakens the next morning, her first thing she notices is that his bed is seriously more comfortable than hers. The second is that the space beside her where Hotch slept is empty, the sheets wrinkles and the covers thrown back.
The third is the scent of bacon wafting up the steps into the room. He's making her breakfast.
She didn't know he even knew how to cook.
With piqued interest, she slides out of his bed and pads down the stairs into the kitchen, clearing her throat to announce her presence.
"French toast, pancakes, or waffles? He's at the stove, surrounded by various pans and mixing bowls, waving a spatula in one hand. There's batter on his shirt and something questionable in his hair. She's never seen him this disheveled up until now.
"I have a choice?" She draws one long, bare leg up beside her, still wearing his shirt from the night before and nothing else.
"Just this once. Next time you're at the mercy of my culinary repertoire." He pushes a mug of coffee in her direction.
Next time. Her heart flutters at those two simple words.
She decides on French toast and watches him get to work, intrigued. He's clearly done this before, based on the ease of which he mixes, measures, and pours the various ingredients. She can't help but wonder if this was how he used to spend Saturday mornings with Haley.
"I never pegged you as a chef." She sips the coffee - it's just to her liking. Clearly he's been paying attention over time.
"I keep a few tricks hidden in my sleeve. There's more coffee too, if you want some."
As she sips her second mug, he finishes making breakfast and they eat in thoughtful silence.
Hotch finally speaks once his plate is empty, clearing his throat. "So … about that dinner."
She nearly drops her fork. "What about it?"
"Are you free on Saturday?"
Old Habits
They're back to square one - fucking each other in hotel rooms.
The team flies to Chicago a few days after the impromptu sleepover - their first trip since before everything fell apart. They land pretty late, arriving at the hotel with only about nine hours before they have to be at it the next morning.
She's wrapped in a towel post shower when she hears the knock at the door, and she doesn't have to ask to know it's him.
Within minutes of closing the hotel room door, she's on her back and his head is between her legs. His mouth is everywhere except where she needs him the most, and he takes his time kissing her inner thighs languidly. "Aaron," she breathes, her fingers tightening in his dark hair. "I need - "
"What do you need?" He's teasing her, grinning smugly against her knee, leaving kisses there too. He already knows her answer, but he's not going to let her off that quickly. "This?" He brushes his thumb over her, smirking when her legs tremble at the contact.
An unintelligible wail escapes from her - she's close and he's just getting started.
"Or this?" He slips two fingers inside of her, curling them just enough so her hips lift off the bed, and she groans in frustration as her spine arches almost painfully.
"You're such a tease," she half-heartedly throws a pillow in his direction, and he bats it away before lowering his head again, securing both of her knees over his shoulders. It's been almost eight weeks, and she comes for the first time that evening almost instantly with just one long and slow caress of his tongue. The first orgasm hits her hard; her entire body tenses and shakes uncontrollably.
She's barely recovered from round one before he lifts her up, one arm under her knees and the other around her back, carrying her across the room before depositing her on the desk. She curls one leg tightly around his waist, fingernails scraping down his back as he pounds into her. When he finally falls over the edge, she's right there with him, his teeth biting into her shoulder.
Old habits, as they say, die hard.
…
She doesn't try to talk herself out of asking him to follow her home once they're back from Chicago.
When Hotch stumbles into the bedroom with Emily in his arms, her legs wrapped around his waist and arms flung around his neck, he lowers her to her bed without even breaking their kiss.
Emily pulls him down with her, rolling them over in one smooth motion so she's sitting astride his hips, one thigh on either side of his. His head is between her breasts, kissing the smooth skin and ghosting over her nipples, raking his fingers through her hair. "Aaron," she sighs deeply, her head falling back.
His mouth finds her neck, leaving a trail of kisses before catching her lips in a rough kiss. "Been thinking about you all day," he breathes, eyeing her naked form intensely. Hotch buries his face against her neck and holds her to him, his fingers digging into her hips as she sinks down onto his length with a satisfied sigh. Emily rocks back and forth slowly, almost too slowly, setting her own pace and taking her time. His hands are anchoring her in place as she continues to build them up, her body starting to tremble in anticipation. When he reaches between them and strokes her with his thumb, she finally breaks apart, her head falling into his chest as she comes for the first time.
She's still shaking, her hands braced against his chest when Hotch is running his hands through her hair, dropping kisses along her shoulders. He's impatient, practically growling into her neck, and easily flips them over so his body covers hers. Within seconds he's buried inside of her again, hard as hell, her knees on either side of his hips. His pace is rough and fast; her hands slide around his neck for leverage as her hips lift just enough to meet his, and it's so good she nearly forgets about how sore she's going to be in just a few hours.
"Right there, oh my God," she moans.
"Come for me again," he murmurs roughly, his mouth sealing over hers once again. Her hips lift against his, her body starting to spasm uncontrollably. "That's it," he coaxes her as she cries out, her back arching off the bed. He's not far behind, and when his hips finally still, she's breathing hard against his neck, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over his shoulders.
When she dozes off, it's in his arms, where she stays until the next morning.
Anticipation
She's almost embarrassed of how long she's spent getting ready for this date. She actually styled her hair - blew it out smooth and straight, and touched it up with the straightener that hasn't been used in months. She took the time to contour her face with makeup, used the expensive mascara (the one she saves for occasions like this), On afterthought, an extra spritz of perfume goes behind her neck.
Five outfit changes later, she decides on what she put on initially, settling on an emerald green jumpsuit. She considered a wrap dress, two different little black dresses (out of an impressive collection), and a silky violet blouse that she's been saving for a long time.
What she doesn't know is that he also changes his shirt (despite the overwhelmingly little diversity in his wardrobe of suits and dress shirts) several times before settling on a shade of blue. It's a quick drive to her apartment. He knocks, three times and his throat goes dry when he hears her shoes punctuate the floor, then pause.
She steadies herself on her heels (it's been so long since she's worn this particular pair) before opening the door.
"Hey." He smiles at her, and if she looks closely, can see just a hint of flush on his cheeks.
"Hi." There's heat rising to her face too, which feels ridiculous considering they've spent the last several months in situations wildly more risqué than this.
"You look beautiful," he says, leaning in to kiss her cheek, and hands her a bouquet of lavender peonies.
"Thank you," She beams, and opens the door wider for him to come in as she busies herself with finding a vase for the arrangement. "I just have to get my wrap." She disappears into another room, leaving him with a whiff of perfume he's never noticed before.
He doesn't know if she's thanking him for the compliment or the flowers, but luckily he can't dwell for too long because she's ready to go a few moments later.
"Ready?"
Firsts
She's never been in his personal car before. It's black on the outside, pristine grey leather on the inside, with a carseat and a few wayward Buzz Lightyear toys in the backseat. It smells like him, and if she shifts just to the left, her elbow brushes his on the center console and she gets the slightest whiff of his cologne.
For once, 66 isn't a complete parking lot, even though they're headed towards DC. The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars plays softly through the speakers, and she learns it's his favorite David Bowie album, just like hers. Even after months of fucking him behind closed doors (and working with him for four years), there's still a lot about him she doesn't know.
Something about the music choice makes her smile, but she can't quite put her finger on it. They make it through Five Years, Souls Love, and most of Moonage Daydream before they arrive at their destination.
The restaurant is a cozy but trendy spot in Arlington, tucked away on the edge of a bustling street full of shops, fitness studios, and bars. She feels goosebumps when his hand finds the small of her back as they walk, perfectly in step down the street and through the doors. They're seated at an intimate table towards the back, tucked away from the hum of conversations and waitstaff.
She orders wine - a French red, and her eyes sparkle when she tells him he needs to try it. He takes her lead, even though he normally drinks scotch or whiskey- and they split the bottle along with an impressive charcuterie board. They're halfway through it when she begins to explain the artful science behind its construction.
"How do you know all of this?" He's impressed with her expertise but not at all surprised by her extensive knowledge of cured meats and expensive cheese.
"I learned everything I ever needed to know about cheese in France." She pops a piece of baguette into her mouth. "Italy was where I learned about wine." Her gaze wanders away for just a brief moment, a wistful look dances over her face.
"Emily?"
She shakes her head ever so slightly, coming back to reality with a small grin pulling at her lips.
"What are you thinking of getting?" He quickly changes the subject and brushes her hand with the tips of his fingers.
"I should probably figure that out," she says softly, turning back to the menu in front of her.
Starman
They're halfway through a vanilla raspberry gelato for dessert when she notices they've completely avoided any and all work talk. Instead, he's telling her stories from the courtroom during his days as a prosecutor. She sometimes forgets about his prior career, only because she can't picture him not running the BAU.
Her hand brushes against his as they leave the restaurant, taking the long way around the block back to his car. When their fingers link together, he notices for the first time just how small her hands are. He's never actually held her hand before; the small act itself feels more intimate than it should. He doesn't mind, and judging by the content look on her face, neither does she.
David Bowie is still playing on the way home - Starman this time - and her eyes close for a brief moment and head tip back just slightly, swaying in time with the last minute of the song. Even after the past few months of whatever it is they're doing, there's so much about her he doesn't know -the little details that make her her. The little details he never got around to learning.
He walks her to the door to her building, their steps in sync as they slowly ascend the sidewalk.
"I had a great time tonight." The smile on her face spreads to her eyes, and he's certain she's never looked more beautiful than in that very moment.
"I did too." The blood rushes from his head, because she's still grinning at him, and before he can stop himself he wraps a hand around the back of her head, the other finding her waist, and pulls her in, his lips colliding with hers. It's certainly not their first kiss, or even their second - she's kissed him more times than she can count at this point - but there's something so novel about it, it makes her dizzy.
There isn't talk of a second date, but there doesn't have to be.
Abide
A week after their first dinner, a memo is sent reminding of the expressive forbiddance of any kind of fraternization in the workplace between agents.
Perfect timing, Emily laughs into his shoulder when he reads the email out loud from his phone shortly after they've thoroughly exhausted themselves. She's wearing one of his t-shirts, their legs tangled together underneath the covers. "Maybe we should be more careful," he murmurs in her ear, his lips brushing her neck. Hotch quickly tosses his phone to the side, the email forgotten for the time being.
"I'd say we're doing a pretty good job."
"If Strauss has a reason to - "
She quickly cuts him off, pressing her lips to his. "Don't talk about Strauss right now." In one smooth motion, she tosses the covers aside and kisses her way down his torso. When her mouth closes around him and she takes him all the way to the back of her throat, his hand fists in her dark hair and he curses into the dark.
...
The next morning, Hotch calls them into the BAU an extra fifteen minutes early to review the briefing, because that's the order he was given. It's been less than an hour since she'd woken him up with her lips wrapped around him once again, and less than fifteen minutes since they hurried into the bullpen. No one notices that they walked in together, their hair is the same level of damp; their clothes slightly wrinkled.
"I heard it started in the San Francisco office," Garcia offers casually without looking away from her computer screen. "Just a rumor. I know nothing. I swear."
"Let's keep rumors to a minimum," Hotch says quickly as the rest of the team files in and takes their seats.
They sit around the table, each of them wearing a different expression. Rossi chuckles and rolls his eyes (he is, after all, one of the reasons these policies were created), JJ seemingly pays little attention. Reid rattles off a string of statistics regarding relationships in the workplace, with Morgan tossing a look of disbelief in his direction.
Hotch has to fight to keep his voice even amidst the wisecracking jokes and Rossi's blase attitude, and completely avoids Emily's penetrating stare. "Just, behave yourselves," Hotch ends his spiel, feeling like a complete hypocrite. "We don't need anymore reasons to have Strauss down our backs."
Hush
When she finally looks up from the report she's been chipping away at for the better part of the evening, she realizes it's been at least two hours since she'd said goodnight to JJ. The sun has blended in the sky and faded to a dark blue.
A quick glance of the clock tells her it's almost 7:30 PM, and a check of her phone yields no new text messages or calls. She frowns, but begins to collect the hodgepodge of folders and paperwork that have accumulated on her desk, because it's time to pack it in for the night.
She sees the light on in his office, and it's so quiet in the bullpen she can just barely decipher the tell-tale tap-click-tap of his fingers on his computer. She picks up the file and ascends the stairs.
"I didn't know you were still here." She leans on the doorframe and gives him a once-over. He's tired, she can tell, judging by his loosened tie and sleeves rolled to his elbows, a coffee cup inches from his hand.
"Yeah. Late night." He looks up briefly. "I'll be at least another hour." Then on afterthought, "You can take my key and let yourself in. I already asked Jessica to keep Jack for the night."
With a devious grin, she cracks the door to his office and crosses the room in two long strides. "I have a better idea."
His eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline as she undoes the buttons on her dark green blouse, letting it hang loosely around her shoulders, revealing the lace bra she's wearing beneath.
"Emily!"
"No one's here." She shrugs, reaching for her belt buckle as he leaps up from behind his desk.
"Are you out of your mind?" He hisses, looking over her shoulder down into the bullpen. "What if someone - "
Emily's lips cover his in a quick kiss. "No one is here, Aaron. I've been down there for hours. I haven't heard a soul." She presses her body against his; already feeling him growing hard against her thigh. "I thought you might want to -" Her fingers pluck at the buttons on his shirt with perfect accuracy, popping through the tiny holes. "Unwind a bit."
Hotch can barely resist her. He kisses her, lush and full and deep, his tongue prying into her mouth and fighting for dominance as they fumble with buttons, zippers, and layers of fabric.
He lifts her up onto his desk with ease and a stack of folders fall to the floor in a heap. He stands between her legs, pulling her pants down over her hips until they fall to the ground. His hand delves between her thighs, finding her soaking wet. "My God," he mutters, his own legs beginning to buckle as she nimbly works his belt and zipper. "Em…"
His hand is still between her legs when she wraps her delicate fingers around his length, pumping him until he's ready, and he nudges her legs further apart. Emily digs her fingernails into his shoulders when he finally pushes into her to the hilt. Her eyes widen, head falling onto his shoulder. Hotch digs a hand into her hair and tugs, exposing her neck and caresses the smooth skin with his lips, stopping on her pulse point, sucking gently.
"No marks," she gasps, but words are lost on her as he continues his assault on her neck. "I can't have -"
He cuts her off when his mouth seals over hers once again. Her hips meet his as he thrusts into her, setting a quick and relentless pace that makes her head spin. Of all the places he's fucked her, cities all over the country, his office has never made the list, up until now, at least. It might just be his new favorite.
The door isn't even fully shut, let alone locked. They're fairly certain no one is left, but there's always the chance of a wayward straggler or even worse - one of their own - and the fact that someone could discover them at any instant makes what they're doing just that much better.
From her position on his desk, she can just see over the railing of the bullpen, and she looks over her shoulder a few times here and there, an insurance policy of some kind. Emily bites her lip and suppresses a groan - he's fucking her hard , with deep thrusts of his hips and an urgency she isn't used to. She braces herself with her hands on the desk as he drives into her once more.
"You feel so fucking good," He growls into her ear, his hand gripped tightly around her hip. "God, you're so beautiful."
Emily presses her damp forehead against his. Her body starts to shake. "Make me come, Aaron. I have to c-"
He slides a hand between them. His fingers meet her slick skin, and she moans in his ear long and low. "I'm so close," she murmurs, her muscles starting to flutter around him. He groans into her mouth and presses his thumb against her.
It's short lived, because his office is suddenly lit by the shadow of a light going on downstairs, a rustle of fabric brushing against a desk, the click-clack of shoes on the linoleum floor. Fuck.
He stops abruptly, still inside of her; pulls her to his chest. She moans disappointedly; she was so close. But the light is still on, and whoever is in the bullpen is still there, doing God knows what. Hotch holds her against him firmly; her body is trembling with need.
One wrong move (or noise) could give them both away.
"Aaron," she whispers in his ear, and he twitches inside of her because the damn sound of her saying his name. "Aaron," she says again, his name rolling off her tongue, "I need to come, now."
He shakes his head, still hard as steel inside of her, the footsteps and swish of drawers a looming threat just too close for comfort. She's practically convulsing at this point, so close to falling over the edge , and he hushes her moans with kisses.
Emily shifts her hips, rocking against him, as if begging him, her eyes glazed with lust and need. Her hair is a mess, her skin flushed, there are marks across her shoulders and collarbones from his lips and teeth. Marks she'll still have tomorrow, but in the moment she couldn't care less.
Fuck it. He gives in almost instantly, beginning to drive into her again, his strokes deliberate and fast. She's biting her lip almost to blood, trying so incredibly hard not to make a sound, but when he fucks her like this she can't help herself. He anchors her back with one arm, and brings his free hand to rest gently over her mouth. "Come now, sweetheart." He punctuates his words with another thrust.
Her eyes widen in surprise and instantly roll back into her head, and she thrashes against him for almost a full minute, and he fucks her through her orgasm. "That's it, just like that," he murmurs into her ear, his hand muffling her cries. He holds her close to him, and when she trembles in his arms, he spills into her. Her body goes slack against his, her head against his chest, and she's completely still for five full minutes as her heart stops pounding and her breath returns to normal.
"Oh my God," Emily mutters, clinging to Hotch's shoulders. He kisses her again as their breathing returns to normal. The light from the bullpen has been turned off, the footsteps have disappeared. They're seemingly alone once again. Hotch pulls out of her quickly, reaching for a box of tissues and tossing it in her direction.
Hotch busies himself with tidying up the office - dropping folders onto his desk, picking up the odds and ends that managed to fall to the floor. He steps into his pants and hastily zips them, fumbling with his belt as he peers out the window of his office. "Looks like we're all clear." When he turns around. she's still perched on his desk, the tissue box in her hands.
"You alright?"
"I need a minute." She can tell she's going to be stiff in the morning. "My legs are numb."
Amused, Hotch tosses her pants in her general direction. "I'm not carrying you out of here, Prentiss. You're going to have to walk."
Milestones
Dinners are becoming a regularity, when their schedules allow it. It's become second nature, practically a given that there will be another each time he drops her off with a kiss to the cheek. There's the steakhouse in Alexandria he insists on, a Spanish Tapas restaurant in Logan Circle she frequents often, a seafood restaurant in Bethesda, and every now and then, a good old dive bar.
It's a fairly predictable pattern - dinners and conversations, followed by walks and talks. Every now and then, he follows her inside when he drops her off, but he never stays the night. And with each passing evening, she wonders if maybe, just maybe, she could get used to this. What she doesn't know is he wonders the same thing.
They go to an Irish pub in Alexandria one night in the middle of a slow week. It's a much younger crowd of twenty-somethings mingling and a decidedly less upscale experience than any of their previous dinners together. But they sit at the bar and drink Guinness while eating pub food, laughing and people watching.
It's remarkably casual yet no less intimate. She wears the jeans with the four buttons he'd struggled with several months ago and a black leather jacket. He likes her in leather, he thinks, as she tips the remnants of her second pint down her throat.
He comes up to her apartment later that night, and wakes up next to her the next morning. It's almost like a milestone they never expected to reach.
Breathe 2AM
Somehow, they end up sharing a room in Texas.
It's a small town outside of Austin with exactly two stoplights and one main road.
The police department is on edge from a string of home invasion-style murders that point to a team of unsubs with every intention of striking again soon. They've been at it all day, and are up to their elbows in case files, evidence reports, and tips from the public that have led them absolutely nowhere.
Thanks to a few miscommunications, they're put up at a small bed and breakfast - there isn't a Marriott to be found around here. The owner sheepishly mentions there are only four rooms available, the team does some mental gymnastics to get logistics worked out.
In the end, Garcia ends up with JJ, Reid is with Morgan, and Rossi takes the single room.
"I can share with Hotch," Emily says casually, even though there isn't another option, and it's a quick done deal. No one bats an eye or ponders the appropriateness of it (or lack thereof) due to sheer exhaustion, and by the next morning, it's practically forgotten when the team reconvenes the next morning.
Night two, however, is a different story.
"Don't you dare stop," she keens into the darkness, her back arched, her hands pulling at his hair for purchase. Her left leg is over his shoulder, the right dangling off the bed, and his mouth is exploring her once again. He's taking his time, building her up and reveling in the fact that he can keep her on edge like this for as long as he wants. Frustrated, she cants her hips against his face in an attempt to relieve the pressure she struggles to contain.
"Shhhh," he hushes her, and his tongue laps against her right there , and her knee trembles in anticipation. "These walls are thin."
"I don't care. Just get up here and fuck me."
"Not so fast, sweetheart." He takes her apart with his mouth once, almost twice, and by the time she's on top of him, her hips rocking back and forth over his, neither of them care about noise.
...
Two hours later, they're awakened by a loud and shrill, yet familiar sound.
He unwraps himself from around her, reaching aimlessly in the direction of the nightstand to quell the offending noise. Shit . It's his phone, and if it's going off at - he checks the clock - 1:49 AM - it's probably nothing good.
The noise suddenly gets louder and now it's coming from her side of the bed too. It soon becomes evident both of their phones are going off. All chances of sleep quickly fly out the window.
It's from JJ - the team needs to assemble, now.
"Emily," Hotch gives her a gentle shake, already starting to reach for his clothes which are tangled with some of hers on the floor. "Get up. We're getting called in."
"Someone better be dead," Emily groans beside him, her voice muffled into the pillow, her own phone blaring the same message.
"Someone is dead. Why else would we be getting called in?"
…
Everyone looks a little worse for wear when the team meets in the small lobby barely big enough to hold all of them. Reid's eyes are blearly and Morgan is scowling, arms crossed over his chest. Garcia, surprisingly, is wide awake, most likely having never actually gone to sleep in the first place. Emily eyes her warily, hoping she didn't hear any strange noises coming from down the hallway just a few hours ago.
"Houston PD is calling us in." JJ finally appears seemingly out of nowhere. She looks more put together than one should at nearly 2 AM. "Three bodies were found about forty minutes ago in a park about twenty minutes from here. I'm sending you all the crime scene photos to review before we head to the police department. They want us there as soon as possible."
They quickly regroup, reviewing the new evidence while someone brews a pot of coffee. Even though Emily downs two cups before they head out, she struggles to stay awake and barely hears JJ calling her name as they hurry into the waiting SUVs parked outside.
"You alright, Em?" JJ is suddenly beside her, a giant cup of coffee in hand. "Garcia told me she heard some noises coming from your room."
"Huh?" Emily eyes her friend suspiciously, saying a silent prayer nothing was heard through the thin walls.
"Garcia told me she heard some noises coming from your room," JJ repeats before taking a long sip of coffee, a suspicious look crossing her face. "Is something going on with you and Hotch?"
Emily nearly chokes on her own coffee. "JJ, what are you talking about? Of course not. Are you out of your mind?"
"Garcia sounded pretty convinced -"
"JJ, it's 2 in the morning and we're about to go examine dead bodies," Emily groans, yawning into her fist. "There's nothing going on."
The answer seems to satisfy her friend for the time being, and they're quickly interrupted by Hotch striding past them quickly, motioning toward one of the empty vehicles. "JJ, you're with me. Prentiss, you're with Morgan."
Emily breathes a sigh of relief, flashing JJ an assuring smile before ducking away, hurrying to catch up with Morgan.
Thunder
In the early hours of the morning in Topeka, she rests her head against his chest and listens to the storm churning ominously outside their window. He's dozing, his head nestled comfortably against the stark white hotel pillow. Emily runs the tips of her fingers over the scars on his torso. It's only after she's traced them all does she realize he's stopped flinching when she touches them.
"Do you think anyone knows?" It's not something she thinks about often, but when she does, it sits in the forefront of her mind like a heavy weight. She's replayed her conversation from Texas with JJ over and over in her mind.
Hotch lifts his head; kisses her bare shoulder. "Would it matter if they did?"
Would it? Of course it would - it could be their end - it could get at least one of them fired, he could lose his title, she could lose the only thing that has ever felt remotely close to family. Whatever this is, it's selfish to think it might have a good ending.
"It would matter to someone," she whispers, turning in his arms and tucking herself into the curve of his body.
Inevitable
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
"Of course I can do this," Emily assured him in the locker room at the police station as she changed into the short, slinky cocktail dress. It's the first time they've been alone together since the morning. "You and I both know I'm the best chance you have."
"You don't have to do this, you know." He'd never admit it, but he wants her back out because if anything happens to her, he won't be able to live with himself. But she's ready to roll, and if they don't make moves now, they're going to miss their chance.
…
They spend two hours reviewing the entire operation from top to bottom. An operation to take down Pat Ryan, their unsub abducting and murdering women from nightclubs in Cleveland.
"If you sense anything is amiss, we'll be in to get you out."
He sounds calmer than he feels. He watches one of the Cleveland FBI agents set her up with a comm unit just outside of the nightclub in the makeshift stakeout van.
"Hotch, I've done this before. It's going to be fine," she reminds him gently, adjusting the tiny device in her ear. "We're going to get this guy."
It almost goes off without a hitch - she dresses the part flawlessly, and once she's in the club and seated at the bar, patiently waiting for him, he almost forgets it's all for show.
The plan works until it doesn't - when the bartender serving their drinks blows her cover, and within a matter of seconds, the entire operation goes to shit.
By the time they make it into the bar, it's too late.
…
Garcia comes through with a location - a warehouse eight blocks from the nightclub, and Hotch doesn't bother to hide his complete lack of objectivity as they coordinate the extraction protocol with the Cleveland PD. He's about to tear into a rookie cop when Rossi lays a tentative hand on his shoulder. Hotch shrugs him aside, angrily clenching his fists.
"Aaron -" the older agent is quickly cut off.
"We're getting her out of there, Dave. I don't care if I have to kill him with my bare hands."
Half the Cleveland PD dispatches to the location, and within an hour of the initial operation, the warehouse door is blown open.
Morgan and Rossi go in first, weapons wielded with exact precision as they quickly clear the first section of the building, motioning wordlessly to turn to the right. Hotch is right behind them, a Cleveland detective on his heels and one more to his left. They're silent through the second portion of the building -Â down a few feet, over to the right, and a few hundred feet to the left. It's like a choreographed dance - every movement in sync, every motion timed. When they round the corner, the building is suddenly flooded in light and Hotch's blood runs cold.
"Well, well, well," croons a sickeningly sweet, slightly depraved voice. "I had a feeling you would show up."
Objectivity
"Drop it, Ryan." Hotch's hands clench tightly around his gun, knuckles white. He's aware of only one thing - the unsub's gun pressed firmly to Emily's temple. From where he's standing, he can see the mess of bruises that have started to set across her face and limbs, the dried blood forming on her upper lip.
Ryan laughs too casually for a man with at least twelve guns pointed at him. "Funny. No way. Not until I know I'm walking out of here." His hand lingers dangerously close to Emily's breast, and a bead of sweat drips down Hotch's brow. "This one's coming with me."
"We both know that's not happening, son," Rossi chimes in, his tone much more pleasant than Hotch. "Now, you need to release Agent Prentiss before this gets worse."
"I don't think so."
"Release Agent Prentiss, Ryan, and we can talk." Rossi tries again.
"She's a fine one, you know. Haven't had a chance to get to know her like I wanted to because you fools showed up." Ryan's free hand reaches up and squeezes Emily's breast.
"Drop the gun, Ryan," Hotch commands again, his voice menacing. If he fucking touches her again he will rip him apart. "If you don't, I will shoot you myself." He swallows angrily and forces himself to not look at Emily.
"If you do, she's as good as dead." Ryan tightens his hold on Emily, who grimaces in pain. "It can't get any worse for me anyway." He laughs maniacally, never taking his eyes off Hotch.
Hotch's chest tightens. Ryan clearly has no intentions on making a deal - he's far past caring. "Drop the gun, Ryan. It's over. You're surrounded."
"Get any closer and I'll blow her head off," Ryan sneers a warning.
One of the younger officers a few feet from Hotch coughs nervously, the sound breaking the deafening silence in the warehouse. He attempts to cover his mouth with his elbow but instead bumps into a garage door opener, momentarily distracting Ryan and his head turns to the offending sound. "What the fuck -"
It happens so fast, it's over in seconds.
It's Rossi who takes Ryan down with a well-timed shot to the thigh. He immediately releases his hold on Emily, the gun clattering to the ground and out of his reach. The younger man screams and writhes across the concrete in an attempt to escape as Rossi hurries forward to secure the weapon. Ryan is immediately surrounded by no less than six uniformed cops and quickly wrestled into handcuffs.
He lingers back, his gun still drawn, heart racing. His eyes waver between Rossi and Emily, who is unsteady on her feet and clearly shaken, eyes unfocused, breathing hard. He's grateful when Rossi holsters his own gun and starts toward Ryan, a knowing look on his face. "Get her, Aaron. I got him."
Hotch is at Emily's side in seconds, carefully lowering her to the floor as gently as he can, supporting her weight under his arm. "It's over, Emily. We've got you." Red and purple welts are starting to set on her arms, her face is even more swollen than he originally thought. "Don't try to move," he murmurs, quickly removing his jacket and draping it over her. "We've got you. You're safe."
"Hotch, I'm fine, stop. Go help Rossi," she shivers, attempting to push him away. He shakes his head, checking her over to assess any damage, looking for anything noticeably broken or sprained, but all he sees is bruises on her face, blood from her nose.
"Rossi's fine. It's under control." His stomach churns when she grimaces once again. "Emily, what hurts?"
"It hurts to breathe," she groans, sagging against him with exhaustion. "I think my ribs are broken," she adds in a whisper, struggling to take a full deep breath. Her fingers tighten around the sleeve of his shirt, leaving bloodstains from her torn knuckles.
"I think so too." Hotch swallows hard, chastising himself inwardly for putting her into this situation in the first place. "Just a few more minutes. We're getting you out of here."
Emily doesn't even attempt to argue when he yells loudly for an ambulance.
Lucky
Hotch rides with her to the hospital in the back of the ambulance. He quickly waves his credentials at the triage nurse who quickly gets them settled in a private room. Sometimes the job has its advantages .
He paces the ground as the ER doctor examines her, sending worried glances in her direction every few moments. Emily almost laughs as he turns a near comical shade of grey when the doctor palpated her broken ribs and she hisses in pain. From the corner of her eye she watches him, acutely aware of the fact that he hasn't been more than three feet from her side since they'd gotten her out of the warehouse.
It takes almost an hour for the doctor to finish. She has a nasal fracture (she's lucky it wasn't her jaw) and a probable orbital fracture. Several broken ribs; foot shaped bruises are her souvenir for those. A concussion, deep cuts on her knees that need to be re-cleaned and bandaged, and over two dozen abrasions and scrapes over her arms and legs. The bruising and swelling on her face will take at least a few days to subside.
He only leaves when he absolutely has to - when she gets X-rays. He takes a call from Rossi, letting him know they've secured the scene and the rest of the team is heading back to the hotel. When he comes back in, she recognizes the guilt etched in the fine lines on his face.
She doesn't have to question that he holds himself semi-responsible. Of course he does. It's not even a question, and they'll have to deal with that later. Instead, she leans back and closes her eyes, attempting to focus on anything other than the pain coursing through her limbs.
Safe
Emily knows it isn't a coincidence that he takes each turn back to the hotel with an abundance of caution. Hell, he drives a solid five miles under the speed limit, and brakes for every speed bump, traffic light, and stop sign.
"You can go a little faster, you know." Her head is pressed against the seat, her fingers are curled around the center console, her knuckles white.
"I'm going the speed limit, Emily," he lies, not taking his eyes off the road.
"Since when do you care about the speed limit?" She tries to hide the grimace as the suburban hits a dip in the road, sending a jolt of pain through her entire body.
"Just be glad Morgan's not the one driving." He doesn't have to look at her to know the tense upright position she's sitting is agonizing.
The car in front of them quickly hits the brakes, and on reflex, so does he. Damn city traffic . The yelp that comes from her throat nearly breaks him apart. " Son of a bitch," he growls, tightening his hand around the steering wheel and glancing in her direction. "I'm sorry, Emily. We're almost there."
"Just drive", she says through firmly clenched teeth, sweat beading on her forehead.
...
Neither of them care who sees them disappear behind the same hotel room door that night. But it's late, and the hotel is practically empty save for the night concierge. He throws a concerned look their way when he catches a glimpse of Emily's severely bruised face and unsteady gait.
Hotch stays close, his hand hovering at the small of her back protectively as they maneuver their way through the hotel. Once in the room, Emily puts the deadbolt and chain lock on, and checks the door twice.
By the time she's showered and changed once again, almost an hour has passed, because everything takes longer with broken ribs. She struggles to get comfortable, gingerly turning this way and that, each position less comfortable than the last.
Eventually her mind starts to blur and her eyes flutter as she succumbs to the numbing effects of the heavy pain medication. "Aaron?" She whispers into the dark, one foot connecting with his ankle under the covers.
"I'm right here, Em."
Nightmares
When he drops her off at her apartment once they've landed the next evening, she asks him to stay, because she doesn't want to be alone.
What she doesn't know is he was planning on staying anyway, and when she unlocks the door to her apartment, he's right behind her with both of their go-bags in his hands.
She wakes up screaming mere hours later, drenched in a cold sweat. It's like Colorado all over again.
He's instantly awake, flipping the light on. "It's a nightmare. Just breathe," Hotch murmurs, rubbing circles against her back as she hyperventilates. "I've got you." He reaches for her as carefully as he can, lips brushing against her hair. "Breathe."
Her chest heaves, the pain starting to throb once again as the sudden movements irritate her ribs. It takes almost ten minutes for her breathing to return to normal. "Sorry for waking you," she croaks, struggling to sit upright.
"Want to talk about it?" Hotch rubs her back in slow, soothing circles.
"It's all blurry." She swipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "I don't remember the actual dream."
"You're in pain, aren't you?" It's not a question even though it sounds like one.
"Not much," she attempts in vain, avoiding his gaze. "Maybe a little bit."
"Did you take anything before bed?"
"No. I wanted to try to sleep without it," she rests her head in her hands. "It didn't hurt as much then."
"Hang on." He kisses her cheek and gets out of bed, returning with her pills and a glass of water.
"Thanks." She chokes down two of them before settling tentatively against the pillows again. "Seriously. Sorry I'm so useless."
Hotch lays next to her, as close as he possibly can be without hurting her. "You're anything but useless."
"I feel useless," she muses, then yawns.
"Try to sleep, Emily. I'm right here." He squeezes her hand, brushing a kiss over her temple.
She closes her eyes, and sleeps soundly through the night.
Heal
When her ribs are completely healed (and a few extra days after that just to be safe), he lays her down on his bed and kisses the remaining bruises (now faded yellow splotches) that remain on her skin.
Emily whimpers against his shoulder when he finally slides into her in one smooth stroke and tightens her legs around his hips.
Hotch is cautious to put any weight on her, and holds himself above her carefully, one hand on either side of her head. "I need you to tell me if this hurts," he says, watching her face for signs of discomfort or pain.
"I'm fine, Aaron. I won't break, you know." She's clinging to him and dragging her fingers down his back. It's only after he's inside of her she realizes how much she's missed this - and him.
He knows that, but she almost did break a month ago. He's not sure if he can take that again. "Emily," he breathes into her neck, inhaling the scent of her shampoo and nipping her smooth skin. "God, I've missed this." He's completely still inside of her, hard as steel. It might drive her insane.
"Now, Aaron."
Months have gone by since the first time she said his name like that, but it never gets old. Hotch lowers his head and kisses her fully, her bottom lip between his teeth, before he moves, slowly, and he nearly forgot how good it feels to be inside of her. He rocks into her carefully but fully, and takes her hands in his and holds them above her head as his hips begin to gain speed.
"Faster," Emily presses her chest into his, wrapping one of her legs higher around his waist. It doesn't take much before she breaks apart, and he's right there with her.
Just like always.
In Between
He makes reservations at a new Brazilian steakhouse a few weeks after she's fully back to work. They haven't had dinner out since before their ill-fated trip to Cleveland.
He's on his way home to shower and change before picking her up when he has to cancel, because Jack gets sick at his babysitter's house. With a twinge of regret, he dials her number, and she answers on the second ring.
She doesn't mind. She's desperately in need of some girl talk, and after ensuring Hotch has things under control with Jack, Emily opts for plan B.
She spends the rest of her night laughing with JJ and Penelope over tapas and sangria.
Emily is two glasses in when the conversation shifts in the direction she knew it would. She's not drunk, but she hasn't consumed much alcohol in over a month so she's starting to feel pleasantly buzzed,
"Mick Rawson asked about you again," JJ says smoothly as she refills her glass.
"Again?" Emily offers quickly, tapping her foot nervously against the floor.
"He's still waiting for you to call him." JJ rests her chin on her hands, watching Emily expectantly across the table.
"I like a persistent man," Penelope chimes in. "And I know we've said it again but he's fine ."
"Clearly he's into you, he's hot , the accent - you could go on one date."
"If he's waiting for me to call, he's going to be waiting for awhile." Emily downs what's left in her glass but says nothing else.
A knowing look flashes across JJ's face. "Is it because there's something going on with you and Hotch?" She pries gently for the second time.
"Seriously, Jayje? I thought we talked about this - " Emily glances between the two of them, attempting her best poker face, but their expressions confirm what she's been trying to hide all along.
"Are you getting laid by the boss man?" Garcia is less tactful, peering at her expectantly over her glasses.
Emily spits out her drink, coughing loudly into a napkin while attempting to compose herself. "That's … I guess that's one way to put it, I guess." She can feel the color rising in her cheeks at her admission.
Penelope claps her hands gleefully and practically bounces in her chair. "I KNEW it! You two were so loud in Alaska I almost knocked on the door but -"
"Can we not?" Emily flushes, dragging her hands over her face.
"Morgan owes me fifty bucks," JJ laughs. "For how long?"
"Since last fall."
"Wow." Penelope whistles. "You two really kept it under wraps."
Emily chuckles. "What were we supposed to do? Announce it on the jet?"
"Uh … well that would have been awkward. But Em, we've had a feeling for awhile now." Penelope reaches for Emily's hand.
"Who all knows?" She groans.
"For sure? No one. But we all took a bet."
"My God," Emily sighs, settling back in her chair. "Of course you did."
"So now that we know, tell us everything."
"Absolutely not," Emily says with a grin, suddenly feeling strangely at peace.
Revelations
He looks surprised to see her on his doorstep. Hotch looks tired, and she quickly remembers he's been tending to his sick kid for the last six hours while she imbibed at girls' night.
"Is everything alright?" He opens the door wider, concern starting to line his face when she asks to come in. "What happened?" He presses a quick kiss to her cheek and ushers her in through the front door, shutting it silently behind them because Jack is fast asleep on the couch in the next room.
"Everything's fine," she says quickly, her voice low. "I'm fine … I just …" she trails off, unsure of where to begin, wondering if she should even be here in the first place. "How's Jack?"
"It's a stomach flu. He'll be good as new in a day or so." Hotch glances over his shoulder. "I thought you went out with JJ and Garcia."
"I did … I was … we -" she trails off, nervously tapping the ground with the toe of her shoe. "We went out." Emily stuffs her hands into her jeans. "I left."
"Sounds like a pretty tame girls' night," he jokes, clearly still not convinced nothing is wrong.
"It ended early … JJ had to get home …" She laughs, her smile just barely touching her eyes, because her heart is racing in her chest. "But I wanted to …"
"Emily," he tries again, this time more patiently. "Tell me."
"I … There's something you should know, something you need to know before we continue this ... whatever it is we're doing."
"What do you mean?" He's close enough she can see his chest rise and fall.
She's never actually uttered the words to anyone before, at least not that she can recall, and certainly never to him, but they spill so easily from her lips before she can stop herself. "I love you."
Unbreakable
She's spent so long attempting to be unbreakable. In his own way, so has he. They've both been shattered apart only to piece themselves together, albeit haphazardly.
He grabs her before she can think about leaving, one arm secured around her waist, and cups her face with his other hand. He kisses her slowly, lush and full, and when he pulls away her eyes are glassy. "I love you too."
And when he bends his head to kiss her again, her world starts to spin like it did the first time in Philadelphia, except this time it spins into place.
Maybe it's them who were unbreakable all along.