The Fifth Year
The fifth Christmas is a mess.
Nothing feels right. In her gut, between the team… It all feels like such a mess. They're all bitter, she knows, over JJ's abrupt reassignment – not that Emily trusts the story at this point. Her own past means she can smell a cover story from a mile away – and Ashley's great, but sometimes it feels a little bit exhausting, having to tug her along. She'll be a phenomenal agent, Emily has no doubt about that, but she has new admiration for her own mentors and what she'd likely put them through.
The only thing that is even remotely comforting is the amount of time she's spent with Hotch.
At first, she'd only been trying to help. Genuinely. He and Jack were still struggling, would probably always struggle when she really thinks about it. She'd set about supporting them in every and any way she could. She sent Hotch home early, shuffled paperwork and cases behind his back, and even shorthanded made sure every single one of them carved out time for themselves and their families.
She is exhausted.
So if she's honest, she'd been really looking forward to the holidays, to the down time. She'd filed for time off, originally intending to go somewhere warm, but never managing to book the ticket. She's okay with that. She thinks some alone time is good, if only to help her get her head on straight.
Jack and Hotch, it seems, have other ideas.
They keep her busy. Snowmen and shopping and Santa. She tries not to think about how domestic it feels, getting dragged along. She tries to remind herself that it's transference on his part, that they are friends and that is all they're going to be regardless of the way her stomach warms at his every touch. She ignores the way his smile makes her heart thump and the way the use of her given name makes her shiver and imagine things she has no right to think about.
They gather at Rossi's again, what she thinks might become a really nice annual tradition. They need it too, she knows. It's so easy in their line of work, the things they see, to forget the things they do have. So despite the fact that she wants to go home with every fibre of her being, she settles onto the couch, Hotch warm and solid at her side as Dave pulls out the candles.
It's all easy and normal, comforting and more than a little bittersweet. She gives herself fifteen minutes after the last candle is lit before she begs off. No one questions her, but Hotch follows her, helps her with her coat.
"I'm fine," she tells him quietly, offers a little smile just for him. She doesn't understand the look on his face, the nerves and determination. At least, not until he steps into her personal space and slips an arm around her waist. He gives her plenty of time to pull away, makes her very aware of what's coming next, but she doesn't move.
Her body stiffens instinctually when his mouth meets hers, her brain tumbling in a million different directions. How wrong this is, how right it feels, and a million reasons and excuses and hopes and dreams. It all crashes on her, leaving her breathless as she goes pliant under his hands. The kiss draws out, long and slow and savoury. She finds herself clutching his shirt in her fists when they finally separate.
"Merry Christmas," he whispers, sliding a hand beneath the curtain of her hair to cup her skull.
She feels warm and wanted and she thinks the smile that spreads across her face is the first honest one she's shown in months.
This time she leans in, cups his cheek. Just before she kisses him she says, "Merry Christmas to you, too."