Ok, so this is unrevised because if I read it one more time I wound never post anything ever again. That is how hard this chapter has been on me. And you'll hate me. Please don't. I did my best. I can't help it. I tried, but this is what happens.
In another order of things, you'll notice that I finally corrected Mick's name. Strangely, I had checked IMDB before I began this story, but my mind processed the information wrong. I was sure it said Mike.
Those things covered, here we go...
She tried to relax. Made an effort not to shake. Not to disturb his imminent sleep. But her mind, the other side of her mind, it didn't care for him at the moment. No. That other part was bashing her for being so incredible stupid. She hadn't seen it coming. Things didn't usually sneak up on her like that. Granted, she wasn't one to overanalyze her life, not when she was in her regular mood. And she hadn't actually been with anyone since she and Hotch had started… the thing they had started. Ok, that wasn't true. There had been other men in the beginning. Not that many, not that interesting, and she had spent a total of maybe 4 hours with them. But she should have seen this coming.
And this was…. Suddenly she quivered, refusing to name, and therefore make real, that thing. Because things only exist once you name them. If something isn't defined, it does not exist.
Rattled by her intense movement and half sleep, he squeezed her. "Are you ok?" he asked in a voice that only Prentiss got to hear. So different from work time Hotch. Damn it!
"Just tired," she replied trying to regain control over her body and mind to no avail.
"You're over tired and your body's telling you so," honey almost slipped at the end of that sentence.
"Do you want to take a shower?" He enquired after a second. "It'll relax you," he added, such a delicacy and care in his voice that she had to sigh.
"No, it's... I... just give me a minute." She muttered, slightly pressing her nose to his chest.
There were many reasons for declining the shower. First, and her mind was not culprit of it, she liked the smell. She liked it. Dry sweat and fluids weren't comfortable and certainly not hygienic, but the smell soothed her. It didn't relax her muscles, true, but she preferred not to wash it off.
Her second reason was that she didn't trust herself to come back to bed, to him, if she had time alone to think. She was already flooded by thoughts of why indulging herself in their on-going-one-night-stand hadn't been such a great idea tonight.
Third, and the one that preoccupied her the most, it was the first time she had this kind of thoughts while still with him. Actually, she couldn't recall if she had ever had them, with or without him. She had been fine with it, whit their situation. The game they played, it was practical, simple and clear. They both knew what they were doing and they truly really had a great time together. It didn't happen often, but when it did, it felt great. It was, as intended, the perfect picture of a good relationship. The best relationship. They had gone through the worst moments of their lives using their thing as a crutch. They had also used it to highlight the good moments. They had gone though pretty much everything playing their game.
But now, if she let go of his body, she suspected her brain would consume her wholly and she would run for the hills. Or attempt to. Which would absolutely shut everything down. Or would make him demand an explanation. After all, even their fake relationship was grounded in honesty.
"How about a massage, then?" He asked after those two last ideas made her shiver once again.
"Let me give you a massage. I want to." Hotch insisted after a short silence.
He could want to, feel compelled to, or intent to avoid being kicked in his sleep by her uncontrollable legs, she thought. They were all valid reasons. And massages, Hotch's massages were good. But still she didn't think she could keep things together without Hotch totally and completely swathed around her.
"No, just..." hold me, she would have said had that been their kind of relationship."Just give me a minute."
"You can take all night," he said pulling her up a little.
He regretted it the second it came out of his mouth. He meant it, of course he did. And he didn't mind that she knew it, not in the slightest. He truly didn't care what she made of it either. If anything, after tonight, he was confident his little slip would be well received. He regretted the cheesiness of that phrase.
"Thank you," she replied, the cheesiness passing unnoticed, not the sentiment. Hotch could be terribly reassuring. Terribly being the key word there, her rational mind said.
She took a couple of deep breaths and, as she exhaled, sank a little more onto him. Between the scent and the contact, her body began to relax, her weight resting fully on him. His skin against hers was calming her soul and mind. She closed her eyes. Life is full of contradictions, which was why she decided not to think about the paradox of finding solace in the person that caused her distress.
So she held on to him as if he was the only thing that could keep her grounded. He felt so solid underneath her, so real. She would have laughed at her shifting definition of reality, hadn't she been so deeply conflicted.
Once the tension was gone from her body, he could loosen his grip and let her hands wonder, his fingers gliding over her back, up and down her spine.
He could have left her fall asleep, let her forget what had been troubling her and simply... But he wasn't that kind of guy.
"Are you ok now?" Hotch asked, his quiet voice concerned.
"Yeah…" She slurred. "It must have been the adrenaline kicking in," she used as an excuse.
It was a little late for the adrenaline to be responsible of her shivers, but it wouldn't be the first time her body could express itself only when she gave it permission. He believed her. Correction, he decided to believe her. At least for now. At least… this wasn't good, he realized. Yes, she had played along, she had left Mick for whatever reason, and she was still with him. But their tacit agreement required honesty.
He was a frontal man, straight forward, he didn't dilate things. He confronted everything as well as he could. At work. His life was a different thing. He had a tendency to play stupid and let things rain on him when there wasn't much to do other than accept them. At least that's how he saw the end of his marriage. He had missed the signs. Or had pretended to miss them.
And he realized that tonight he had done the same thing. He had not paid attention. He had been sure Emily's anger was pointed towards herself. But it hadn't, had it?
"Are you still mad at me?" Hotch asked in a cautious tone. He wasn't sure he was a strong enough man to hear what he had done wrong.
Was she? Well… "Yeah… but it's not your fault," she admitted. It was her fault. She should have been careful. But grrr… it had worked so well. Up until the moment she had had the need to parade her insecurities and bring old Prentiss out for a ride. Until a guy that was oh, so perfect for her had showed up and addressed his attention to her. But she was not going to think about it now. She had already banned herself from that. Tonight was going to be just like every other night they had together.
"Whose fault is it?" He demanded not quite believing her, and not entirely sure he wanted to hear who else was to blame, as he crooked his head to look into her eyes.
He sounded a tad anxious and perhaps even e little upset, but his arms were still embracing her, encasing her securely, keeping her guarded from everything that was beyond them. That, that exact contraposition between how he felt and what he offered her, was one of the things that melted her into a puddle of goo. She sighed, thinking that he shouldn't be melting her into a puddle of anything and that she shouldn't have become the type of woman that melts.
"Mine," she replied, looking up at him, "It's my fault, Hotch."
He did not know what that meant, if she was telling the truth, if she was deflecting, if she was just trying to get him to give up, but he did not like it. And he didn't want to give in to his decades old habit. Whichever option, he wanted to know. But he didn't want to confront her either.
"Is it about the roof?" He asked her going back to the beginning of their night.
Unlike before, when her boss had called her on her error, this was her lover/partner/nothing asking. "No, it's not about it," she answered, her voice in her regular low pitch even when it sounded somehow smaller.
Hotch then had to move on to the next part of the night. "Is it Mick?" He had to make a supreme effort not to call him SSA Rawson, marking with that difference in title that Mick was not as important as him. Hotch's most basic instincts kicked in, apparently, when it came to Emily and another men.
Exasperated, she sighed and popped herself on her elbows so she could stare right into his eyes, "Do you really want to talk about Mick?" And taking in their situation, their position, she added, "now?"
He knew before he asked that this would be her reaction. He actually knew, the second she walked into his room, that he should not ask a single thing about Mick. But he had made his choice and he was sticking to openness regardless of how mad they could end up at each other.
"No, Em, but..." both Emily and Prentiss would have sounded as if he was reprimanding her, however, he hadn't rationalized it before he called her Em, "I don't, but…"
"Then don't ask!" She cut him off with a whispered shout. They could not use their normal tones when the walls were made of wet tissue paper and they had team members at both sides of the room.
"Hey, it's not me who went to someone else's room and came back made a mess."
He meant to say that it was valid motive to be concerned, but it didn't quite sound like that.
She huffed tilting her head; the Prentiss way to say so that's what this is about. "Now I'm mad at you because of you," she replied sliding off of him and sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Don't go, we're having an arg…" He began half angry and half worried he had broken that thin stability they had created, but he was distracted by the black and blue blotch on the small of her back, where her hip dimples should have been visible. "Prentiss, your back!" he muttered sitting up.
"I was hit by a car, Hotch," she replied dryly and the fingers that were about to touch her fell onto the mattress silently.
"May I?" She asked pointing with her chin to the button-down shirt that hung from the bed's post.
"Sure," he replied.
As she slipped in it and bent to grab what he later saw were her panties, he realized she was just going to the bathroom, not away. Relieved, he flopped back onto the bed.
She walked towards the bathroom made a controlled anger ball. She could not believe him. Really, what was the need? Wasn't she there, with him, in his room?
She got it, she really did. People can't help it. They need to know they are the chosen ones even if they don't chose you back. It's human nature. But did he really need to bring it into the light and rub her face on it? Was he aiming for a written confession? Did he want to know that nothing had happened with Mick because her body had suddenly decided it only wanted to be touched by him? Then what? She shook her head. This was not being another plain just for tonight night. Because, seriously, then what?
Feeling naked, utterly exposed, with her feelings and emotions pouring out as if her flesh had been slashed and blood was streaming out of her body while he gained some sense of male prowess, she drank a glass of water.
Without even thinking, she refilled it and came out of the bathroom.
He had heard the water running, the toilet being flushed, more water, silence for a couple of minutes and then water again.
She was less angry but not much more calmed, he noticed as she padded towards the bed. Unbelievable beautiful too, but of that he had been aware since they had met all those years ago.
Wordlessly she handed him the glass. He was always thirsty after sex but never actually got himself a drink. She hated and loved that she knew that.
He drank its full content thinking that he hadn't even felt that thirsty, but he wasn't surprised she knew he needed water. "Thank you," he said leaving the empty glass on the bedside table.
"You're welcome," she replied, still standing by the bed.
They blinked at each other. As much as he tried, as much as he used his expertise, he could not identify and categorize all the things that her eyes were displaying now.
Unable to do anything else and, frankly, thinking that she might just do, he almost pleaded, "Don't go."
She looked at him, lying on his side, his elbow poking the mattress since his upper body's weight rested on it. He didn't appear to be as self-assured as he had been in her head.
"I wasn't planning to," she told him truthfully, even more now that he didn't really seem to be acting as if she was just a pray he had snatched from an opponent.
He should say he was sorry for asking about Mick. He should come up with some explanation and maybe even an apology, but he had the feeling that none of those things would be of any help.
"Come back to bed," he said.
Had he patted the spot next to him, or blinked, or winked, or as much as moved his head, she would have felt so patronized that she would have dashed out of the room half naked as she was, guided solely by her fury and resentment.
But he had plainly said it, just asked her to come back to bed, and there was a tang in his voice that pulled her in. Every single time...
So she laid back on the bed, uncomfortable at first, not knowing if she preferred to face him or not. She just wanted to sleep. So what if right now she needed his warmth to fall asleep? So what if she wanted to strap herself around him to feel, for the couple of hours they had before the alarm went off? So what if even now, torn between what she wanted to do and what she should do, she still wanted that slice of mocked happiness?
Hotch watched her as she covered herself with the blankets and rested on her right side, ready, as he could see, to let him hold her.
He could do just that. Huddle her for the night and pray the Lord it was enough to keep things going. Or he could do something.
"Prentiss?" he asked, his hand brushing her back, willing her to open her now closed eyes.
She finally obliged. He would not quit just because she refused to look at him.
She looked worn out, defeated, defenseless and yet so strong, he thought. She was the toughest, most resilient person he had ever known. Which didn't mean he could do whatever he wanted with her because she could tough it out.
"I'm sorry I upset you," he muttered as his gaze traveled her features freely.
"It's…" She meant to say it's fine. And she should say it. After all, it wasn't Hotch's fault. He couldn't know what was going on within her. He couldn't guess she had walked so far away from the limits of their playground, that she had broken the rules.
Knowing that there was more to that phrase but that she wouldn't complete it, he studied her carefully. He should probably keep his mouth shut. He shouldn't push, not when she seemed to have lost her self-confidence somewhere between the moment she had stepped out with Mick and now, and not when there was nothing he could do about it. But he had to know, "Can I ask you something?"
She closed her eyes. What could he possibly want? Her twisted sense of humor shone for the briefest of moments, her kidney? There wasn't much else of her he didn't have by now, whether she liked it or not and whether he knew it or not.
Taking her silence as a yes, he asked, "We'll talk about this, right? You'll tell me what's going on?"
He wasn't really asking. And none of them knew exactly what this meant. Tonight? This particular discussion? This string of just for tonight nights? Her feelings? His feelings?
She opened her eyes and stared at him, thinking. Even when he was being so awfully open, so willing to step out of his comfort zone, she had no idea of what he was thinking, of where he wanted to go with his questions. She did not know what he wanted to hear. He could be asking for a way out or a way in. Because, honestly, their thing had stretched long enough and now she was the one that was troubled by it. It was her call.
"I don't know," she replied after a few moments. She didn't know. She hadn't decided if it was time to step out of the fantasy or if she still had some strength for more. Because even though the game, the idea of being with Hotch had a pull on her she hadn't expected when they started, she had to consider that tonight she had tried to find reality with some else.
The implications of her answer, the various implications, were evident. They both knew it. And he nodded, eyes still fixed on her, "OK."
He turned the bedside lamp off and darkness, both real and metaphorical, fell on them with the density of mercury. She could not see the change in his eyes. She could not see that the thread of hope had vanished and there was little other than disappointment, a sort of sadness that rarely he dared to let out.
She closed her eyes again, ready to feel him plunk by her side. That was it, she told herself. Whatever it was.
Instead, she felt a hand sneaking around her neck, pressing against her nape slightly, in that manner that was so Hotch that she melted again, as his lips fell on hers.
She allowed him to kiss her sweetly, deeply. But when he broke the kiss she muttered, "You can't fix this with sex."
Again, the definitions of this and fix were unattainable.
"I know," he replied. And he did know. He was perfectly conscious of that. And that hadn't been his intention. "I just want to kiss you," he added before leaning again.
And this time she didn't just allow it. They both kissed. This time, when he climbed on her, they both clasped around each other. And they continued to kiss, deep, deep kisses in which something that wasn't exactly passion was poured. Because if this was it, the proverbial it in this kind of situations, then there was no reason not to let their feelings translate into caresses and twirling tongues. If it all could go to hell the next morning, as soon as she left the room, then why to deprive themselves of what was left of their fantasy? Why not to take the kisses as if the other really meant them? Why not to pull each other as close as they could and kiss as if they were really the right person to one another? As if there was going to be a tomorrow as bright and perfect as those kisses? To hell with the real tomorrow.
You hate me. I know. I am sooooo sorry. They are both OC, this is the sappiest thing I had even written. But there are even more horrible versions of this, trust me, you wouldn't have liked those better. Review anyway, please. Tell me to go to hell. The story continues in my head, but it can die there if you prefer.
With that I end my own self battering.
See you, or not.
allthatisevil