See a Penny, Pick It Up
"When two people are in love, they are parallel lines. That intersect. Together but separate. Infinity."
~James Collins.
February 2014. The Hotchner House. Suburbs outside Washington, D.C.
Emily was wiping away tears, but Aaron didn't ask her why—by now, he knew that it was simply something that she did every time she climaxed. He'd learned this secret about her five months ago, the first time that they'd crossed the boundary of their previous relationship. There was one exception, and it was their last time together, their last morning in Nairobi. She'd laughed instead—her eyes had still glistened, but no tears had escaped.
She took a heavy drag of air and let out a long, controlled breath. He didn't have to look at her to know that she was slowly clicking herself back into place, mentally compartmentalizing things. He kept his gaze at the ceiling, quietly allowing her the chance to regroup—he also didn't have to look at the clock to know that their few stolen hours together were almost up, and soon it would be time to take her to the airport and watch her board the plane for England.
He didn't want to think about that, not just yet. So instead he imagined how they looked, lying side-by-side, stark naked and staring at the ceiling. They were mirrors—dark hair, dark eyes, his scars from Foyet, her scars from Doyle. A perfect match.
He'd never thought of them in such terms. But it didn't make it any less true. They were a match, in many respects—not in all ways, not in everything, but in the things that counted, they were well-suited if not always perfectly aligned. They had their similarities to bind them, and their differences to add necessary balance.
But in some ways, they were too alike—their commitment to work being the starkest similarity. That commitment had kept them alone for so long, and that same commitment kept them apart, even now. And despite the problems it caused, neither one regretted their dedication, in themselves or each other.
In moments like this, however, it was harder to remember that he didn't regret his life's decisions.
Once Emily had fully returned to her body, she rolled onto her side, pulling herself closer to him again. The bedsheets were on the floor somewhere—she was fairly certain they'd gotten kicked off in the mutually-incited skirmish that had just been waged across the entire length of Aaron's bed, though she couldn't say that she was paying too much attention to be entirely sure. Her mind had, understandably, been on other matters.
It had been five months since her skin had touched his, but it felt like ages had passed—of all the men she'd known, she couldn't remember missing anyone as much as she did Aaron. Not that she'd admit that—it would be an exercise in futility, since neither one could leave their present life behind. She knew that it was too optimistic to hope that one day, they'd be able to be together, really together, but she couldn't find the strength to kill that senseless hope just yet.
But she would begin the process—death by a thousand small, painful cuts. And it began the way that it always did, with a series of simple reminders.
She reminded herself that Aaron was still dating Beth. And that Beth was a good, decent human being, more than capable of healing Aaron in all the ways that Emily couldn't—and even though Hotch had told her that he'd felt Beth drifting since her move to New York, their relationship was still more than whatever this was between him and Emily.
She reminded herself that she lived an entire ocean away, and that she had no intention of leaving a job that engaged and fulfilled her. And there was no way that she could let Aaron do that, either.
Then she quietly reminded Aaron, "This is more than just a fling to me."
"I know." His tone provided the rest: it's not just a fling for me, either.
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. He gave a light sigh as the silence filled with the other part of her usual reminder—the part she hadn't spoken aloud yet. This was more than just a fling, emotionally, but practically, it couldn't be anything more than that. It was what it was, and it only existed when they were here—here, in the same space, in the same moment, physically together.
"I don't want to fuck up your life here, Hotch," she admitted, her words becoming muffled as she buried her face in the crook of his neck. It was a tender gesture, but he also understood the stealth behind it—her lips were on his pulse-point, as if trying to monitor how stressful this discussion was for him. Slightly manipulative, but at the same time, he knew that she was well-aware of the fact that he wouldn't honestly tell her if he were upset, so he didn't blame her for the subterfuge.
He wanted to tell her that she couldn't possibly mess up something that she was supposed to be in, but he didn't. Instead, he simply said, "If I thought the complications involved would be more than I could handle, I wouldn't have done this."
She gave a hum of agreement—Aaron Hotchner was many things, and generally he was a concise and calculated man. But she also knew that love sometimes made people do impulsive things—because yes, this was love, they'd said it, they'd acknowledged it back in Nairobi, and neither one was a fan of saying meaningless things.
She pushed her doubts and fears aside and returned to a more playful subject, sitting up to look down into his dark and serious face. "It's a lot more fun when I don't have a bullet hole in my leg, isn't it?"
In Nairobi, she'd been shot by Constance Connelly, an Interpol analyst who'd turned out to be a sleeper agent for Mossad's Kidon, a covert unit specifically designed to assassinate enemies of Israel—and the terrorist they'd been chasing could have certainly counted as such. They'd been in a race against time, each trying to get to the terrorist in question, Mariatu Wasaki, before the other did—and Connelly's aim had been merely to wound and distract, rather than kill. Emily had gotten a bullet in the leg, and in true Emily fashion, she'd recovered quickly, but the incident had left its mark, only fueling her determination to finally cross the line of what if with Aaron.
"I still remember having plenty of fun," he assured her with a sly smile. That grin turned softer as he added, "Besides, it was the bullet hole that finally brought us together, wasn't it?"
She made a slight face as she considered, "We were already on that track by then. I can honestly say that it helped, but I totally would've jumped your bones with or without a brush from death."
He laughed as he pulled her down into a kiss, and his teeth on her lips said that the feeling was mutual.
The alarm on Emily's phone went off. She strangled a frustrated groan.
"I'm not ready to leave yet," she whined.
"I know," he kissed her forehead—something her mother would do, whenever she dismissed her from a room or a conversation.
The ride to the airport had been quiet, but once they were on the tarmac, Emily talked about random, mundane things, as if trying to fill the air with words because she feared what might slip out in the silence. Aaron didn't mind, because truth be told, he missed getting to be a part of the random and mundane parts of her daily life, the way he had been before. He joined her in the farce, adding his own stories and thoughts, and all too soon, the pilot was waving for Emily to board the small private jet.
She turned to give him a quick, hard kiss, as if she were stamping an imprint on his mouth. Then she was moving, before he could pull her back, offering a false flashing smile over her shoulder, "See ya later, Hotchner."
"I'd prefer sooner rather than later," he informed her, raising his voice to be heard over the plane and the wind.
She was really grinning now, turning to backpedal as she held out her arms, "Don't worry. I'll be back soon enough. I'm like a bad penny. You couldn't get rid of me, even if you tried."
February 2015. The Hotchner House.
Aaron's heart leapt to his throat when he heard the knock on the front door—but it certainly wasn't from fear. Earlier today, at the airport, he'd made it clear to Emily that he wanted to pick up where they'd last left off, and she'd been equally clear in her approval of that plan. However, they hadn't had the time to sort out the how or the when. He'd kept a quiet faith that Emily, his self-described bad penny, would show up when she could.
Lucky pennies showed up like that, too. Whenever they could and whenever you truly needed them.
He opened the door, and despite knowing full well who would be there, he still felt a wave of surprise. She had the ability to do that to him—a stray glance, an accidental look, and he'd be struck by just how shockingly gorgeous she was. Shockingly wasn't the right word, he realized, but he couldn't quite think of a better one.
In his defense, he was slightly distracted. Here was Emily Prentiss on his doorstep, breathless and anxious and wide-eyed and wonderful.
"I told Penelope that I was going out to check on Declan," she admitted, her voice barely audible. Her lungs suddenly felt two sizes too small as she thought about the last time she'd returned home—his teeth and tongue and hands had found her with the fervor and urgency of a man dying of thirst. She tried not to think about the fact that being here, standing in front of him, was somehow her definition of home. But it wasn't an easy task—he was wearing sweatpants and a rumpled grey t-shirt whose vulnerable and sleepy wrinkles made her throat tighten with all the pieces of him that she'd missed. For a moment, she was at a loss at how to proceed—there were so many things to say, to see, to do, where could she start?
She also suddenly realized that she had just appeared on this man's doorstep without the slightest hint of warning. What exactly had she expected to happen?
Oh, Emily, you know the answer to that one.
Thankfully, he saved her from her momentary uncertainty, opening the door wider and silently inviting her inside with a gesture which implied that he'd been expecting her. "I was wondering what took you so long."
She grinned at his nonchalance, her nervousness slipping away as she moved past him. She played along, "I told you—you can't get rid of me that easily, Agent Hotchner."
"Then it's a good thing that I really don't want to, Chief Prentiss." The door was closed and he pulled her into him, simply taking a moment to feel her body molding into his with an easiness that belied the fact that it had been twelve long months since they'd even been in the same timezone.
"I love when you call me Chief," she admitted with an amused hum, leaning her chest further into his as she kissed the tip of his chin.
"I'll keep that in mind, Chief," he returned the kiss, except his was on the tip of her nose.
She stopped and pulled him into a proper kiss, the kind that short-circuited his brain and made him remember just how much he'd missed the woman currently clutching at his t-shirt.
Damn his brain for flashing back to the conversation he'd had with Rossi, less than a half-hour ago. He stopped for a moment, "Emily, there's been a development—"
"Are Reid and JJ safe?" She interjected quickly.
"Yes—"
"Then I don't care," she gave a curt shake of her head. "I mean, I should—I do care—but I can't right now. I'll have all day tomorrow to care about this case, and to pretend not to care about you—so can we just forget about everything else for a little while?"
To pretend not to care about you—Aaron knew exactly what she meant by that. All day, he'd tried to school his glances, to keep affectionate tones from his voice, to make sure he wasn't smiling too broadly at every little thing that she did because it was all so Emily and it was all right here, with him again. There was something comforting in knowing that she'd been waging the same battle.
She was waiting for his response now, fearful shadows around her dark eyes as she catalogued every movement of his face, trying to decipher his inner thoughts—as if she doubted that he could set aside a case, even for a few minutes.
There will always be a case. That was what she'd said to him, in Nairobi, when he'd hesitated about moving forward. Her words were as true now as they were then—for them, there would always be a case, a mystery to solve, a suspect to find, a victim to save. They had to learn how to carve out moments that didn't revolve around that, moments that merely existed for them alone.
Earlier, when Rossi had called and told him about the latest development in Linnea Charles' disappearance, he'd felt a wave of anger. He was tired and he was sick of feeling as if they were showing up a day late and a dollar short to every part of this case—and he was frustrated because he'd had a premonition of how Rossi and Prentiss' decision would end, and that feeling had been proven true.
However, he currently found himself unable to be angry with Emily—not now, not when she was holding him so tightly and looking at him so beseechingly. Everything else was drowned out by the sheer relief of finally having her near him again.
Besides, he knew that once she knew what had happened, she would blame herself. She'd get upset, retrace her own words and actions and motives from her interview with Mason Charles, imagine a hundred different dark outcomes for the situation and hold herself responsible for every single one. He could push this aside a little longer, let her stay shining and beautiful and devoid of guilt for just a few more moments.
He gave a small smile, his hand involuntarily reaching up to brush a stray hair from her face. "We can try, Chief. But you'll have to be very, very distracting."
Now she grinned, and the doubt in her eyes became something much more playful. "I think I'm up to the challenge, Hotchner."
With that, she pulled him back in, her tongue easily slipping past his teeth as her hands pressed into his back, bringing him as close to her as he could physically be. She bit his lip, giving something between a moan of relief and a growl of anticipation.
"Jack—Jack's upstairs, asleep," he gently pulled her back, and her eyes were wide with chagrin.
"Oh, god, I didn't even think about—is this—should I—"
"Don't go." He finished the question and answered it at the same time. With a smile, he added, "Just…be aware."
Her uncertainty melted back into mischievousness. She stepped back, keeping her eyes locked on his as her hands slowly unbuttoned her winter coat. "So…no hallway strip-tease like last time?"
He fought back a laugh—yes, they'd left half their clothes at the front door last time, but tease wouldn't have been an accurate description for that. Dear-god-get-these-clothes-off-so-I-can-feel-you would probably be more apt.
He moved forward again, helping her out of her coat and letting his hands trace their way down her arms. She turned her head slightly, giving him easy access to the soft column of her throat, which he gladly took. She gasped lightly at the heat of his mouth, and he couldn't think of a single sound he'd missed more in the past year.
Emily's only thought was that if this was how he took off her coat, she couldn't wait to see how he'd take off the rest. When it came to how easily he worked her senses, Aaron Hotchner was the best kind of trouble that a man could be.
"Have I mentioned how much I've missed you?" He was murmuring in her ear now, his hands easily settling on her waist as he pulled her closer again.
"No, but I think I'm starting to get the idea," she informed him with a wry grin, her own hands mimicking his movements, slipping under his shirt. Her fingers were still cold from the winter air, but he couldn't have cared less. They were Emily's, and they were here, calling for him. She gently kissed the corner of his mouth, a hint of a kiss rather than an actual one, "What you've missed about me, exactly?"
"It's a long list."
"Better talk fast, then." She was pulling at his shirt, teasing him. His hands returned to her hips, pushing her further back, against the wall. One hand stayed anchored to her hip as the other found its way past the waistband of her jeans.
Emily gave a soft gasp as his fingers brushed past her clit, and he hummed in approval at the slick warmth already awaiting him.
"I thought you said Jack was home," she reminded him breathlessly.
"I did. So try to keep quiet, Chief."
She gave a low growl of frustration, which rumbled into a chuckle—wicked, wicked man. He was fully aware of the fact that she wasn't the quietest person in the world, particularly when it came to sex—ah, yes, his mischievous grin told her that he remembered that quite well. He was stroking her easily now, as if trying to draw out some kind of noise from her, teasing her into it. For a brief flash, she wasn't sure if she wanted to hit him or fuck him.
She decided on the more rewarding option (Emily had always prided herself on being a very pragmatic girl). So she grabbed his face with both hands and dove her tongue into his mouth, letting the moan building in her lungs slip into his.
He pulled away, only slightly, "I can't give you my list if your tongue's in my mouth."
"I'm sure I'll understand it anyways—I'm excellent at picking up nonverbal cues, remember?" She could hear the shakiness in her own voice as each movement of Aaron's hand sent another ripple through her hips, which were rolling by their own accord, encouraging him to continue.
"It's always best to be as precise as possible," he reminded her. Jesus, what an absolutely Hotch thing to say—of course, he'd never speak in the low, teasing tone that he was using right now while out in the field. And his current expression, that adorably-teasing smirk and the shining eyes, oh, she'd certainly never seen that out in the field.
"It's also good to be concise," she pointed out. He gave a slight huff of amusement at her impatience. She shared his grin, watching his dark eyes as they moved across her body, watching him silently catalogue and decide where to begin. At this particular moment, she wasn't sure if the tightness in her chest was from adoring fondness or simply a side-effect of his hand's current efforts.
Except the finger against her clit stopped moving. Emily held her breath and his gaze as she waited for him to make his next move, placing her hands on his upper arms, her fingers pressing into his flesh—both to steady herself and to gently remind him that she was still here, still needing attention.
"Your eyes," he decided. His finger moved again, a single, smooth stroke. "I've missed those eyes."
His finger stopped once more, still putting just enough pressure to make Emily's lungs tighten with pent-up electricity.
"Your neck," he moved on, and his finger stroked her again as he dipped forward to place a single, warm kiss on the area.
"Mm-hm, what else?" Emily prompted breathlessly, closing her eyes and trying to remain calm. She could've easily turned the tables, but she loved having Aaron like this, so removed from the stoic team leader she'd known for so many years—and more importantly, she knew that he'd give her a chance to retaliate soon enough. He was a man of principle, after all.
Aaron could feel the tension rippling through Emily's body, the way her muscles tried to hide the shivers that rumbled just beneath her skin, the way she bit her lip and dipped her head forward slightly—she was trying so hard to hold on, to be good and patient, to give him whatever he wanted, the moment he asked for it. But as in all other aspects of her life, Emily Prentiss wasn't the greatest at keeping still or simply passively accepting whatever came her way.
He decided to offer her a measure of relief with his next item on the list. "I've missed the way you touch me."
She breathed a sigh of relief, her hands springing back to life as if compelled by a will of their own, burrowing under his shirt again, slipping around his waist as her fingertips sank deep into the small of his back, silently grateful for the solid feeling of his body in her hands again. Those hands were roving again, in slow, luxurious circles, silently encouraging him to continue his own circular movements on a certain part of her body.
He grinned at this—Emily had always been an easy read, when it came to sex. Her desires had a way of making themselves pronounced in a way that even a blind man could see.
She saw his grin and gave a lazy, warm smile of her own. She knew that he was teasing her, and she didn't mind. She simply pulled him closer to her, letting the wall behind her take her full weight as one leg easily looped around Aaron's, calf to calf.
"I've definitely missed that smile," he informed her, and she gave an amused hum in response, rumbling into a deeper purr as he continued stroking her. He wasn't stopping and starting his motions anymore, and the heat simmering through Emily's hips began to build into waves, her breath coming in ragged gusts as her veins hummed and pounded.
Aaron wasn't talking anymore, merely watching her with those piercing dark eyes, and the acuteness of his gaze was enough to make her heart stop for a full beat. Her wandering hands moved upwards, gently cupping the sides of his face, bringing his mouth back to hers, her tongue pushing her frustration and desire against his own.
He titled his forehead against hers, once their lips broke apart, admitting with a whisper, "This. I've missed this."
Her entire body twittered in response. She was close to the edge and she became more frantic in her movements—her hands clutched at the sides of his face, his neck, his shoulders, his hips, anywhere, anything to keep her from falling away from him.
And then he stopped. The warmth of his hands slipped away and he shifted back slightly.
She looked at him in utter bewilderment, and he merely gave a smile. "I think that's all I have on my list."
The look on Emily Prentiss' face was worth any possible bodily harm that he might suffer for his actions, Aaron decided. Her flushed cheeks only heightened the sheen in her dark eyes, and the heaving of her lungs only brought attention to the enticing pale skin of her breasts. The thin, hard line of her lips opened long enough to emit a small huff of frustration.
Of course, Emily Prentiss was neither a meek or mild woman—he knew that her restraint thus far had merely been her attempt to give him whatever he wanted or needed in that moment. But he wanted Emily at her heart-stopping finest—and that was when she returned his ardor with equal or greater force.
Aaron Hotchner was actually moving away from her, as if he was going to casually stroll down the hallway, as if she were going to wait to make it all the way up the stairs and into his bedroom before receiving any kind of satisfaction.
Oh, boy, you've got another thing coming.
She launched forward with a slight growl, grabbing his shirt and pulling him back into her. In any other situation, her body language would've seemed threatening—she stood so close, the tip of her nose touching his, eyes locked and expression deadly serious.
"Finish what you started, Hotchner."
He laughed. He actually laughed in her face. And as frustrated as she felt, Emily found herself grinning too—he was enjoying this way too much, but the delight on his usually-stoic face was worth the teasing, she decided.
Well, almost worth it.
She cupped his face with her hands again, but he reached up to stop her, gently pulling her left hand away as he kept his fingers around her wrist, a fragile prison she didn't wish to escape. His eyes never left hers as he brought his lips to that wrist, bestowing it with one deep, warm kiss.
Emily's throat clicked and tightened as she hurdled into the memory of their very first kiss—he'd ended by kissing her wrist, just like that, after he'd told her that he wanted to kiss her the way she was truly meant to be kissed. It was a simple action that set her skin on fire anew as she remembered everything that kiss had set into motion, almost two years ago.
Gods above, this man was too much, sometimes.
Aaron marked her transformation with slight wonder—now Emily stood completely still, barely breathing as her big brown eyes simply swallowed him whole. She'd remembered (of course she'd remembered), and the nostalgic adoration in her features was so entrancing that he wanted to stay here a moment, learning this new expression. There was a secondary fizzle of delight in knowing that there were still parts of Emily that he hadn't learned yet, secret sides of her that he was seeing, sides that no one else had ever seen. It was a gift of an adventure and he prayed he'd never be stupid enough to take it for granted.
Emily's hand reflexively curled inwards, her fingertips lightly brushing his forehead as her smile deepened, sharing this quiet little secret with him. The blood in her veins was still pounding, but the frenetic franticness had slipped into a slower, steadier pulse—one that beat with inevitability and assurance, a slow-burning intensity that radiated from her hips to her heart and back again.
He was moving slowly again, keeping his eyes locked on hers and devouring every movement with clinical intensity. His hand released her wrist, slipping down her side and around to the small of her back, pulling her closer to him as his other hand found its way back to her pulsing center, a single stroke of his finger sending electricity ratcheting up her spine once more.
She gave a small gasp as her head leaned forward involuntarily, her forehead resting against his shoulder. He turned his face to her, keeping his lips on her hair, feeling the heat of her breath through the thin fabric of his shirt.
Her hands were fluttering like birds in a cage, without purpose or direction, seeking a resting place but never staying still long enough to land. Again, she was overwhelmed by all that she'd missed about this man and her inability to figure out where to start in her rediscovery.
Finally, her right hand landed at the curve of his neck. She could feel his pulse beating against her palm and she held on tighter, feeling her own blood race in rhythm with his. Her hips were rolling again, moving with the strokes of his finger—she pressed further against him, feeling the hardness of his cock against her hip and responding with a rush of wet heat in her own core.
She looked up at him with a lip-biting grin as she slowed the movements of her hips, keeping herself pressed against him. You wanna play the tease, Hotchner? Well, you're not the only one who knows that game.
He merely grinned in response, and her stomach rippled at the sight.
The ringing of her cellphone ripped through the moment like a banshee shriek, sending a jolt of surprise thought them both.
"I-uh-I-I should…" Her head was still foggy with desire and her lungs still weren't properly functioning, since the tension in her body was making her forget to use them.
"Forget about everything else for a little while," he reminded her huskily, dipping his head lower to whisper in her ear, his grip on the small of her back tightening, keeping her anchored with him. His other hand never stopped, and neither did the waves building and crashing through her hips.
She let a strangled noise, something between a laugh and a groan—she was the one who'd suggested such a thing, and now it was working against her. "But what if—"
"You can belong to the rest of the world later," he informed her. "Right now, you're mine."
Her heart and her lungs skittered in response. He didn't have to look into her eyes to know the tears were already brimming as she tumbled into the thunder and lightning surging through her veins.
Aaron Hotchner was nothing if not a man of precision and efficiency. Emily smiled smugly to herself as she acknowledged this fact, rolling onto her side to rest her head against his bare chest. His heartbeat was pounding in heavy, steady beats, and she bit back another smile as she closed her eyes, letting her own pulse settle back down to match his. His skin was warm and damp and she'd missed the taste of it, the taste of knowing he was flushed and shining because of her (perhaps it was selfish, but it definitely was a thrilling thought). She lazily traced a whirling pattern across his chest and stomach with her fingertips, her own skin skittering with electricity when his hand returned the motion on the smooth planes of her back.
She missed sex with Aaron. She knew that, she'd always known that. But it wasn't until moments like this that she realized she missed his mere presence so deeply—because it wasn't until she'd returned to that comforting space that she realized how stressful the outside world was. It was like a Kevlar vest—you didn't notice how heavy it was, how much harder it was to move and breathe, until you took it off again. Then you were struck by the difference, slightly amazed at your own ability to function so well while wearing it.
She suddenly felt tired, and torn. The full weight of what had happened to JJ, what was still happening to Reid, finally hit—she'd been running on adrenaline for so long that she'd been able to stave off the fear, but the door had been opened and now that feeling burst in like a flash flood.
Aaron felt the sudden change in Emily—the tension in her muscles, the shift in her breathing, even the way the pressure in her fingertips went from luxuriously lustful to light and distracted. He didn't pull back, didn't let his hands stop their remapping of her skin. He quietly asked, "What's wrong?"
"I'm scared." She admitted, shifting her face upwards, towards his, her words creating warm gusts across his neck.
He knew that she wasn't referring to what was happening in this room—she was talking about all the things happening outside, in the wide and scary world they inhabited.
"Me, too," he returned softly. It was true—he'd held on to hope and determination because at this point, it was all they had in their favor. But as each hour ticked away, he felt the pressure building. These people were his responsibility, and he couldn't protect them. It was the most agonizing and frightening realization, one that could easily spiral if he didn't keep himself busy with trying to fix everything.
Of course, he still hadn't told her about Linnea Charles yet, either.
Emily had known that Hotch was worried—of course he was, he was human and he loved his team, regardless of how little he said it aloud, and he felt that it was his job to keep them all safe. She knew this, she'd felt this for her own agents at Interpol, and yes, she'd seen Aaron's guilt in the moments when she was one of his injured or endangered agents.
She didn't want that. She didn't want fear or guilt—and more importantly, she didn't want Aaron to feel those things, either. He didn't deserve it. Her arms wrapped around his torso, hugging him closer to her, as if she could physically shield him from such emotions.
That small gesture sent a ripple of warmth through Aaron's chest, but it wasn't one created by the simple feeling of Emily's naked body against his own—she wanted to protect him, and the tenderness in her attempt reminded him of her words, the last time she'd been in his bed.
This is more than just a fling for me. He'd known that, even before they'd physically committed to this in Nairobi. And more importantly, he'd returned the sentiment.
He felt another hitch in her breathing, as if she'd prepared to say something and then stopped herself.
Probably her usual mantra of "you don't have to wait for me." Or perhaps that it was time for her to leave.
He didn't want to hear it, and he got the feeling that she didn't want to say it, so he silently changed the subject, gently rolling her onto her back again, leaning over to nip the soft flesh of her breast, committing the sensation of the suppleness beneath his teeth to memory as he re-enacted all the things he'd thought about doing while seated across from her at Penelope's earlier that evening.
She gave a wry hum, drolly intoning, "Subject exhibits cannibalistic tendencies."
He hummed in amusement as well, letting his mouth move further down. Cannibal? You haven't seen nothing yet, Chief.
She chuckled softly when she realized his intent. Her legs languidly opened for him, and the warmth of his hands on her thighs elicited a small hum of satisfaction.
"I don't think I mentioned this earlier, but I've definitely missed seeing this tattoo," he admitted, planting his mouth on the inside of her right thigh, where the words bona fiscalia were imprinted.
Bona fiscalia. Public property. He knew that this had been her first tattoo, and mainly an attempt to shock and dismay her mother (which, knowing Elizabeth Prentiss, had probably worked exactly as intended). He also remembered her story about a former fiancé, who'd wanted her to get the ink removed—and he was glad that she hadn't caved to the pressure. How many people wore the stories of their lives on their skin with such easy courage, like she did?
"Have you now?" He could hear the grin in her voice as her left leg moved upwards, the bend of her knee hooking around his shoulder.
"Very, very much," he assured her, placing another kiss on that site, following it with a nip of his teeth.
Emily glanced at the clock and made a small noise of dismay. If she was going to convincingly sell her cover story to Penelope, she'd have to be back at a decent time.
"Has the clock struck midnight, Cinderella?" He asked quietly.
"I'm afraid so," she admitted with a regretful sigh.
He propped himself up on his elbows, his eyes finding hers easily, even in the darkness of the room. "Next time, you'd better think of an excuse that'll keep you out all night."
Her expression deepened into something much more devious. "Absolutely."
She sat up and leaned forward, kissing him fiercely and sealing the deal.
His hand on her stomach gently pushed her back again. She gave a slight huff of amusement when she realized that he wasn't going to let her leave just yet.
Noting her (mainly feigned) disapproval, he raised his head again, "What? You were the one who told me to finish what I start."
She really couldn't argue with that. And honestly, she really didn't want to.
Now that there was a moment of silence, Emily could fully hear the faint twittering of her cellphone, which had been abandoned in the pocket of her coat, which was still downstairs.
"Oh, shit," she grimaced, squeezing her eyes shut. The responsibility on her shoulders pushed back against the delight seeping from her hips and she wasn't sure which one she wanted to win, in that moment.
"I really hope that wasn't a commentary on my technique," Aaron's dark head popped up again, expression deadpan. Of course, he'd heard the phone, too, but his quip made Emily laugh, which was its sole purpose.
"Never," she purred, sitting up to give him a regretful kiss. "But I do think it's time to return to the real world."
He knew what she meant by it, but he still fought back the urge to argue that this moment was part of the real world, too. Instead, he sighed and tried to hide his disappointment by lightly offering, "You'll need to shower before you go back."
She hummed in agreement, lifting one leg over him so that she could roll off the bed and onto her feet. "Grab my phone from downstairs and I'll let you join me."
"I thought that was a given."
"I suppose it is," she shrugged a bare shoulder. Then her eyes lit up with mischief as she leaned forward and breathily added, "But I'll be so much more…grateful."
He laughed at her act, taking a moment to appreciate the view as she moved around the bed and slipped into the master bathroom before donning his robe and going downstairs to retrieve her phone.
She was already in the shower by the time he returned, and he sensed that she was giving him a few more minutes inside their little bubble—she wouldn't check her phone until after, a small gift of time which he gladly accepted.
"Want me to wash your hair?" That was a joke, and she took it as such, as evidenced by her snort of incredulity.
"You are a man of many talents," she pulled him closer, giving a small hum of delight at the feeling of his body against hers again, "but hair-washing isn't one of them, Hotchner."
"I just don't get enough practice," he informed her, and the flash of hurt in her eyes surprised him, although it disappeared so quickly that he couldn't be sure that it was ever there at all.
Her playfulness returned, unmarred by its brief hiatus. "Make all the excuses you want, buddy, but you're still off salon duty."
"I guess I'll have to find other things to occupy my time."
"I'm sure you'll think of something," she rolled onto her tip-toes, kissing him with a smile.
Her phone burbled again, and she growled a string of choice obscenities as she slipped past him, grabbing a towel and gingerly stepping out of the shower.
Aaron pulled back the shower curtain, watching her as she stood next to the sink, focused on her phone. He envied the rivulets of water, which had the delight of slipping down the length of her legs—terrain he'd covered many times and would never tire of retracing.
His momentary jealousy was cut short by Emily's face, which turned back to him with wide-eyed, ashen cheeked severity. One hand clutched her towel with white-knuckled terror as the other held her phone to her ear.
"Oh god, Aaron, we messed up."
"What is it?" He was out of the shower now, too.
"Linnea Charles. She's—they have proof that she was kidnapped," Emily's brain was still processing the information, but her profiling senses were still intact. She immediately noticed the lack of surprise in her lover's expression. "That's what you wanted to tell me earlier, isn't it? Why didn't you? Why didn't—"
"Because you asked me not to," he reminded her, trying not to sound like a child blaming someone else for his own actions and trying not to over-correct and infuse too much aggression into his tone. "And because there was nothing we could do about it—"
"First of all, you know that I didn't mean it like that—I thought it was something small, not something as big as Rossi and I fucked up and now there's a woman who has been kidnapped for over twenty-four hours, who we could've helped almost half a day ago," Emily threw out her arm, towards the invisible Linnea and her equally-invisible kidnapper. Her other hand stayed firmly clenched on her towel, and Aaron got the feeling that now her grip was less about fear and more about shielding herself from him—shielding because she somehow felt betrayed by his actions.
"You wanted a break from it all—you asked for a moment of just us."
"This was more important. You should have told me anyways, you should have—"
"I should have what? Done exactly what you asked me not to do? Blamed you for Linnea's situation? Told you that you made the wrong choice and now a woman's life is at stake because of it?" The words came quicker and harsher than intended, but Aaron couldn't stop them.
Emily's eyes were as wide open as her mouth, and the hurt in them was unmistakable. She took a breath as if it pained her. "Are you saying that this is my fault?"
"It's what you want me to say, isn't it?"
Emily didn't answer the question, but she didn't wait for Aaron to answer hers, either. She merely returned her attention to her phone, listening to another voicemail. She stopped, looking up at the ceiling as she processed whatever information was coming in via voicemail. Aaron watched her face, knowing that the news wasn't good—and neither was the fact that she was avoiding eye contact.
"Mason Charles got a call from Dawson's team. Apparently they told him the truth, and urged him not to contact Linnea—they seem to be following our theory that she's safer if her kidnapper doesn't know we know she's missing. He called me for some kind of advice. However, I was with you, so…"
She didn't finish the statement. He understood the rest, the unspoken accusation.
"Emily, don't," he warned. She shot him a single cutting look before returning her attention to her phone.
"And he texted me, later," she announced, becoming distracted by the aforementioned text. Then she hissed, "Oh, fuck."
"What?" Aaron's query was a mixture of genuine curiosity and the desire to have Emily speak to him again—he could feel the illness brewing between them, and he knew that he had to keep her talking, if they were going to quell it.
She looked up at him again, her face filled with frustration and anger and helplessness. "He didn't listen. He texted Linnea anyways, asked where she was—then started calling, when she didn't answer. He told her the FBI was looking for her, and she needed to call him back, right away. She still hasn't answered. Jesus, Hotch, he may have just signed her death warrant."
She swore again, making a beeline for the bedroom, muttering almost to herself, "I knew this was a mistake."
Those six words stopped Aaron's heart for a full beat, and he felt them as keenly as if she'd smacked him across the face. He recovered quickly, fear propelling him forward as he followed after her.
"What is that supposed to mean?" He demanded, using every fiber of self-restraint to keep his tone in-check.
"I don't—I mean, I shouldn't have—" She pushed out a frustrated sigh that rumbled into a growl, although he couldn't tell if her frustration was directed at herself or him. She was turning around in small, helpless circles, trying to find her clothes, which had been hap-hazardously abandoned throughout the room.
"Shouldn't have what?" He hit the last word harder than he intended, and then suddenly remembered that his son was sleeping just down the hallway.
Even if his tone had remained neutral, Emily could feel the anger and hurt radiating off his body in waves, but it was currently the least of her concerns. Her head was swimming with fear and guilt, and the thought that she'd been so stupid and irresponsible was making it hard to breathe. She stopped, holding out both hands as if she could will the rest of the world into pausing as well. "I'm not saying that this whole thing was a mistake. Just…tonight. I shouldn't have come."
"There is nothing that happened in the past hour that we could have possibly prevented or controlled," he pointed out. He felt like was an attorney again, building a case, but the woman in front of him was both judge and jury, and her edict held so much more weight than any other he'd faced. "Dawson and his team are handling Linnea's disappearance now; we couldn't get involved even if we wanted to."
"Mason Charles wasn't calling Dawson—he was calling me, for help. I could have convinced him not to tip our hand. I should have been there for him. I should have answered the damn phone." She still didn't look up, shaking her half-soaked head in self-loathing. "We should have waited—we're in the middle of a case—"
"Emily, look at us—we're always in the middle of a case," he threw his hand out in an expansive gesture. "You said so yourself, in the beginning. It's who we are. If we waited until we weren't on a case, we'd never—"
"Yes, but this isn't just any case, is it?" She wiggled into her clothes, not even drying off, the fabric clinging to her skin as heavily as her guilt. Her hair was plastered around her neck like a noose and she whipped it away with far more aggression than necessary. "It's Reid, for Christ's sake. He needs us, and here we are—I have missed calls from Rossi, from Mason Charles, the whole world's spinning out of control and I was too busy fucking around with you to notice."
"Don't." He commanded, and this time, he didn't give a damn if he was slipping into section-chief mode—he needed her to snap out of this dangerous line of thought, and he'd use every weapon in his arsenal, even if it meant reverting back to their previous relationship of leader and subordinate. "Don't make this sound so base and insignificant."
He grabbed his sweatpants, which had been abandoned on the floor much earlier. He felt naked, both literally and figuratively, and while he couldn't escape the sensation of the latter, he could at least remove the former. In two bounds, he was at her side, gently stopping her from opening the bedroom door. She pulled back, but she still wouldn't look at him—a simple action that hurt more than he'd imagined.
She ducked her head, closing her eyes as she softly admitted, "You don't get it."
"Then tell me. Make me get it." His tone dipped to match hers. She kept her eyes closed, taking a deep, unsteady breath.
"I don't regret this." She breathed the statement like a criminal uttering a damning confession. "I know I should, but even now, I don't."
Now those dark eyes opened, focusing on him with a mixture of heartbreaking fear and intense curiosity, as if she needed to see his reaction and also feared it. "Don't you know how scary that is? It's absolutely petrifying to realize that I'm…I'm letting the world burn."
His throat tightened at her confession, at her acknowledgement that she'd let the world burn—for him. He wanted to hold her, to tell her that they had nothing to regret, to remind her that they'd earned it. Instead, he gently said, "The world's been burning for a very long time. It'll burn with or without you."
She gave a small nod. She swallowed, quietly asking, "But some of these fires—I started them, didn't I? This is my fault. Dave and I should have—"
"You couldn't have known. You made a decision, and it's done." She'd never heard his voice so tender, so heartbroken, and it only racked up her guilt. Aaron could see the emotions rolling across her face—he knew that Emily wasn't the type to be placated, or who even wanted such a thing, so he chose honesty. "We make mistakes. We make bad calls and take wrong turns and it's just what happens sometimes. We don't always win."
"I know," her voice broke slightly at this confession. "But this isn't one that we can afford to lose."
She still looked haunted, but she was pulling him closer again, holding on instead of pushing away. Aaron held on just as fiercely, trying to silently will Emily into self-forgiveness.
That was a battle he couldn't afford to lose, either.
"It was good, and nothing good is truly lost. It stays part of a person, becomes part of their character. So part of you goes everywhere with me. And part of me is yours, forever."
~Rosamunde Pilcher.
*Author's Note: I feel like a few Team Hotchniss readers will feel slightly cheated right now...but can I just promise that I'll make it up to you soon, pretty please?*