December 19, 2013

"We should go out."

Emily blinks her hand fumbling on her tea enough to slosh some over the edge. She hisses at the sting of the te water, rushing to run her hand under cold water. She and Hotch are up particularly early, a combination of an early night after an emotional day and an unspoken agreement to snatch some quiet time together.

"Sorry," he says mildly from his seat at the table. "I didn't think that would be a shock."

She shoots him a look. "I'm not shocked."

"That flesh burn mark says otherwise."

"It's early," she protests, still shaking out her stinging hand as she makes her way towards him. She settles gingerly in the seat next to him taking careful sips of her tea.

He's silent for a few moments, watching her before he says again, "We should go out."

"Okay," she answers easily, because she's not crazy enough to say no. "What did you have in mind?"

They end up at a little place in Georgetown Emily's always loved. It isn't until their entrees are set before them that it genuinely hits her: she's on a date. More than that, she's on a date with Hotch. It's surreal, she thinks, even as he regales her with entertaining stories about the year's cases. She's heard some, of course, because she keeps up with the team in a general sense, but all in all, it's a pleasant evening.

He'd told her to dress warm – and has refused to tell her why, but she figures it out when he tugs her off the Metro at Federal Center. The Mall is lit up, the trees strung with holiday lights and the monuments glowing against the snow. It makes the whole scene sparkle. Her breath catches at the sight and she slides her hand into his.

She looks up when he squeezes her fingers finding him smiling down at her. "Shall we?"

There's a hush over the city, one that only comes with a layer of sparkling white snow. They slip and slide over some of the packed paths as they wander passed the art gallery and Smithsonian Castle. She sighs.

"I used to have an apartment in Arlington, you know. I could see all of this every night, whenever I wanted, all lit up."

"I remember," he replies quietly as the wander towards the Washington Monument.

"Sometimes I miss it. London's beautiful and my flat isn't anything to scoff at, but it's not the same," she goes on. This time he waits her out.

And is handsomely rewarded.

"It was the closest to home I've ever felt, living here."

He wants to resist asking the question, but it flies out despite his will power. "Then why did you leave?"

"Doyle, I think," she answers, head tilted back to see the top of the Washington Monument. "Even knowing logically that he was dead, I could never settle."

He remembers that she never seemed comfortable here in the US, after Doyle. He'd known that. He'd reached out to her because of that in a lot of ways. He hasn't ever been very good at watching her suffer.

"So I left." She hates that her voice cracks. "And now London… London doesn't really feel like home either."

It's on the tip of his tongue to demand she move. It's the logical answer, the only answer that makes sense. Here, is her home. Here with him, with them, with the people who are her family.

But it isn't his decision and he refuses to put that kind of pressure on her.

So he squeezes her hand instead, offering her support as best he can. She squeezes back with a smile that shakes around the edges. For the first time since she arrived, he actually gets the sense that something else is going on here, there's a bigger decision to be made.

He tugs her in, presses his mouth to hers. He can't make the decision for her, probably can't help her either, but he can present an extremely compelling argument for her return.

And maybe if he's lucky – or perhaps very, very good – she'll do just that.

She'll come home.

Remember what I said about patience?

Remember I said I didn't have any?

This is the result.

I hope you enjoyed!