December 7, 2013

She wakes slowly.

It's been a luxury if she's honest, something she really hasn't been doing in London. She's been better about it here in the States. She's on vacation, after all, and that requires lie ins and naps, doing nothing and lounging in her underwear. The latter of which, she does know and acknowledge, would be awkward in JJ's house and she has not done it, thanks. Still. The point.

She takes stock slowly too. Her side is crazy warm and her neck hurts. She's got a crick. Damnit. She hates when she sleeps on her neck funny. It bothers her for days. But then her eyes flutter open and she realizes that she is not in JJ's guest room and the reason her neck is so sore is because she's sleeping in the odd space between Hotch's shoulder and the back of the couch.

Hotch's shoulder.

Hotch's couch.

Holy crap.

She'd stayed the night. She's pretty sure he's not going to be mad at her for that. After all, he seems to have fallen asleep on the couch as well and Emily can vaguely remember having Jack there too. He's not, but there's a blanket tucked around her very carefully and since Hotch is still definitely out cold beneath her – and in his own awkward position – she thinks that maybe it's Jack's doing. That sweet little boy.

She doesn't want to wake Hotch. It's Saturday. No one has to be up and since his day before had been so long she wagers the sleep is doing him good. She knows he loses too much sleep as it is.

So she lets her mind wander, just a bit. There's been something different about Hotch, she thinks, now that she has the time. There's been something in the way she's seen him, in the way he's been interacting with her that's softer. She feels like he's not hiding with her, like he's not putting up that wall he oh-so-often had in place in the BAU. She feels like she's seeing a softer, warmer Hotch that she's only ever caught glimpses of before. But it's been consistent over the last couple of days.

And then, well.

Last night.

She doesn't know what happened. It must have been the carols, she thinks, the atmosphere with the choir and their utterly haunting finale of 'Silent Night'. Because she knows better than to think that Hotch would be leaning in, even with his hand on her cheek. And she has no idea what that was about either. Regardless, she shouldn't have pushed. She did, she knows. She leaned in and she was seeing things because he wasn't doing the same. Why would he? There's no way with the distance and her past and Doyle and everything he's seen of her that he'd want her like that.

And this. Well this was just fluke. Coincidence. Because they'd fallen asleep together. Well, not together, just on the same couch. At the same time, since she can remember Rudolph and the Grinch. Parts of Frosty too, she's pretty sure. But he must have fallen asleep first, without her noticing.

And Jack.

Where was Jack?

The little head in question pops around the corner of the hall and she offers him a gentle smile. "Hiya, Buddy," she whispers.

Jack pads through the living room, rubbing still sleepy eyes. "Hiya Emily. You slept here."

"I did. I fell asleep."

"We both did."

She's up like a shot – what the hell he'd been awake?! – and then is forced to get all the way up and make a run for the bathroom to cover it. Not that she's stupid enough to think that anyone's going to buy it, least of all Hotch, but she has to save her dignity somehow. And save herself from the really awkward questions. Because she's avoiding talking about it, any of it, because she just…

She wants to savour it.

Thankfully, Hotch and Jack are preoccupied in the kitchen when she emerges and Hotch even offers her a steaming mug from his single-cup maker the team had all gone in on to get him last Christmas. Faster, she thinks, than a pot, but he has one of those on too. Bless.

"Emily," Jack asks when he spots her, rolling a sparkling silver ball back and forth. "Are we going to do yesterday's thing today?"

Emily chews her lip as she glances to Hotch, but he seems to be letting her take the lead. "You could," she allows. "It's a good idea."

Jack's bright eyes turn to Hotch, who nods, slowly.

"We can do it today," he agrees. "Come on Jack. Let's show Emily our decorations."

She opens her mouth to tell him off, she does. She doesn't need to be here for this. They don't need her and she's already overstayed the welcome of a friend and they are not more, even though they had the Almost Kiss -

They have nothing. There's a garland that apparently goes around the window and some fairy lights, but she tells both the Hotchner men that on no uncertain terms was that to be considered good enough. So they go out. It's mayhem, of course, but Emily grins through it, Jack at her side and they drag Hotch along. He seems content enough to let her do the choosing and she does – within reason. It's not a spree, after all, but they need something a little more than a garland and lights to dress up the place for the holidays. She even manages to find vinyl window decorations and winks ridiculously when she drops a sprig of mistletoe into the cart.

Just in case, she says.

Just in case the planets all align and we get caught under it. Or miracles happen and he even puts it up.

No. Constructive thoughts. Thoughts about happy Hotchners at Christmas, not about how Hotch's mouth would feel against hers, even for the split and courteous second it would take to fulfill the mistletoe tradition.

It takes them all afternoon to decorate. She thinks it's mostly Jack's fault – the kid is precise, terrifyingly so – but she's sure she and Hotch were a little picky as well. There's a wreath on the door and garlands around doors; even a string of Christmas lights carefully hung just under the counter in the kitchen. Actually, it looks a little like Santa's village tastefully threw up in the Hotchner apartment.

But it makes Emily proud.

So proud that she cannot, for the life of her, wipe the grin off her face, even as her heart sinks at the end of the day. She has to leave. It's time.

What's funny is that Hotch, very carefully, walks her to the door.

"It's ten feet Hotch," she says with a laugh.

And then he surprises the absolute hell out of her.

He catches her around the waist – and she did not squeak because that would be totally embarrassing – and pulls her in, cupping her head just before his mouth meets hers. She melts immediately, she can't avoid it. Her knees bend and he has to tighten his arm to hold her up. It only works so well though and she finds herself stumbling back, even as her mittened hands come up to his ears. Damn, but he's a good kisser.

His eyes are dark when they pull back for air. So dark. She has to force herself to swallow, even as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth.

"What was that?" she whispers.

He looks up, then back down at her. Her eyes flicker, follow his gaze.

Mistletoe.

He'd kissed her under mistletoe.

Holy crap.

"Good night, Emily."

That night, the low, rough quality of his voice is a prominent feature in her dreams.

You all should know I wrote this really late. Like, borderline I'm probably a bit delusional late. So I don't actually know what happened here? Hotch and Emily happened, that's for sure. They kind of did their own thing. Actually, a while back I wrote in an author's note something about arguing with Hotch when he really really really wants to kiss Emily and I stopped arguing. Cause I'm tired. And the man is bloody persistent, even in my head. Gosh.

So you get a kiss. Yay! Big yay! And I think earlier than I've ever done it, actually. Mistletoe's usually at the end of most of my Christmas stories, well into the relationship part of the whole thing, but it just seemed to fit here for a change.

And I'm caught up! Mostly. Obviously I have today's to write yet, but at least I have today's to write today instead of yesterday and today's to write today!