Hi! Here comes what's written. It isn't much, but… well, you know what? I'll add an AN at the end.
Once again, I apologize for grammar and spelling errors, not my mother language.
I hope you enjoy.
It was 5.25 in the morning when Hotch's cell began to buzz. It was all it took to wake him up; the thing rattling against wood.
There was that moment of pure perfection. The moment when you just open your eyes, found yourself tied into a knot of limbs and don't even care which are yours.
As he blinked, Emily, still not fully awake, snuggled against him.
But then, the wall of bricks. Had last night really happened? Had it been as it was coming to her memory?
Well, yeah, her mind told her in a perfect imitation her actual tone.
While he stretched one arm to silence the phone, she untangled herself from him as casually as possible, which only made it more awkward. But her mind kept on yelling at her act normal, act normal, act normal! And another part of her brain yelled back what the hell is normal?
Truth be told, she couldn't tell left from right, much less could she know what was normal within the limits of their –now cracked- alternative reality.
Get up, her brain told her and she did, it sounded normal enough.
Get dressed, was the next order and, again, it made perfect sense. How to do it, however, was another story. Go to the bathroom? Not her usual behavior, so no. Don't go to the bathroom but put the bra on while still wearing the shirt? What was she, twelve? He had seen her naked more than enough times for it not to be tantalizing. No. She was going to get dressed as she always did.
So she picked her bra up, held it by the strap with her teeth, and took the shirt off. She folded it without much care, as she always did because it was going to the washer anyway, and then put the bra on. Socks were next, then her trousers, then her shirt, then her holster. Everything at a slow, calm pace, as she would normally do.
There was movement behind her; she could hear him gathering the things for his shower. He always brought his clothes to the bathroom so he wouldn't have to freeze his ass getting dressed in a cold room, he said.
He was acting normal too and she saw it as a good sign.
Looking for his shoes, he found hers. After what she thought was a second of hesitation, he grabbed them and placed them by the bed, next to where she was standing.
Damn it, she had to talk now.
"Thanks," she said, but it came out in that raspy first-word-in-the-morning voice she hated so much. She cleared her throat. "Thanks," she repeated with her regular voice.
"Any time," he replied as he usually did.
Leaving her jacket on the bed, she sat. He was sitting there too, probably gathering his thoughts, she considered.
They gazed at each other for the first time that morning and they half smiled at their mocked mock of real reality. After putting on and zipping up her boots, she grabbed her jacket. It was time to leave.
She stood up and then everything happened as if it was a reflex. He clenched her hand, she turned to him, they both pulled, he stood up and they shared a peck on the lips.
It wasn't a peck this time, though. It lasted longer, they pressed a bit harder and it had a little more suction. The smacking sound that ended it was not a common occurrence either. The small stare that followed, however, was.
They squeezed their joined hands; she smirked a lopsided smile and gave him a quick little kiss, her lips just barely grazing his.
"Bye," she said as she turned on her hills and began to stroll towards the door.
"Bye," he responded only after her hand had completely slipped from his.
And she was gone, out to face the real world.
He recapped the entire thing in his head. For a second or two after he opened his eyes, he thought it had been just another night. The next second he remembered. And she began to act awkwardly.
He had to admit that it was indeed an awkward situation. He wasn't exactly comfortable. And he also had to admit that he was relieved when she started to pretend that everything was normal.
So he did the same. He brought his clean clothes to the bathroom and looked for his shoes. He found hers first and doubted for a moment. But normally he would give her the shoes- boots, actually. It was time to interact.
He placed them by the bed, next to where she was standing. She thanked him, he replied.
She sat as she always did, he smirked because she was smirking, and she put her boots on.
Then she stood up and it was a pavlovian response. Grab her hand, pull her in, give in to her pull, get up, kiss her.
But this time he didn't want to stop kissing her. So he pressed a little harder, sucked a little more. They stared as they usually did. He tightened his grip on her hand and he wasn't sure if she was doing the same. But she smiled what looked like a sad grin and brushed his lips with hers.
She said bye, her hand was gone, he said bye and then she was gone, snapping him out of the fantasy they had built up.
And he didn't have a clue of what was going to happen next. If anything at all. He didn't even know if he wanted things to change, to stay the same or to pretend they have never existed. Because, everyone, he told himself as if he was addressing a group of policemen, this was day time, no team member almost killed, no guy following anyone in sight, perfectly fine with his life as it was Hotch.
Ok, let me explain. This is not a chapter, this is a part of the chapter that I am currently writing but that is giving me some problems. I posted it anyway because I need a pat on the back, ok? That's the truth. This story is becoming more difficult to write than I had expected and I need some support. It's sad and it's pathetic. But it is what it is and I am not going to lie to you.
With my vulnerability on display and a fresh pot of coffee, I'm off to continue this story.
allthatisevil (or we could just change that to allthatisspineless)