She doesn't realise she's given the cab driver the wrong address until she pays him and gets out, and finds herself outside Hotch's apartment. Freudian slip, she thinks, and it makes her giggle. She checks her watch – they have tomorrow off, so he's probably still awake. Sober Emily would try to catch the cab. Drunk Emily doesn't want to run up the street in heels. And sober Emily would have done a better job of remembering her address.
By the time she reaches his door, she's almost talked herself out of knocking. She feels silly, dressed up and not entirely steady on her feet, the world a little shinier than normal – but she's come this far. She knocks.
He opens the door still in his work clothes – the tie is off and the sleeves are rolled up, the top two buttons undone. It's the powder blue shirt. She loves the powder blue shirt. He steps back to let her in, and she hesitates. "You okay?" he asks, looking her over. It's not the first time she's shown up at his door since he signed the divorce papers – they've spent quite a few evenings here together – but it is the first time she's done it at nearly midnight in a black scoop neck dress and heels.
She nods, smiling easily. "Yeah, I just -" She doesn't want to say she said his address when she meant to say her own, but she doesn't have a better excuse. "You want to come for a walk with me?"
His eyebrows raise and he checks his watch instinctively. Then he looks down at her feet – he is no expert, but her shoes don't exactly look comfortable. "Are you sure you want to go for a walk?"
"Yes," she says. "Positive."
Then she giggles – actually giggles, a sound he would never have imagined her capable of producing, and before he knows it he's putting on his shoes and grabbing his keys. As they walk down the street, she tells him she was out with people she knew in school, when her mother was back in the US. "Friends?" he asks.
"Honestly?" she replies. "Even 'people I knew' is a bit of a stretch. 'People who knew me' would be an outright lie."
She's starting to slow down, so he takes her hand, hooks it into his elbow and crosses the street, sits down on a low wall with his ankles crossed in front of him. She joins him, sitting closer than she normally would and keeping her hand around his arm. He tucks it in close to his body and watches, transfixed, as she stretches her legs out in front of them, kicks her shoes off and stretches her toes. Beautiful, he thinks, and clears his throat. "I'm glad you came over," he says.
She smiles and leans sideways, her head on his shoulder, everything starting to spin a little. "I'm kind of drunk," she admits, like there's a chance he hasn't noticed, and he laughs. "What?" she says, batting him.
"I know."
"Oh." She pauses, stretches her toes, circles her ankles. Her feet look very far away, and she's getting sleepy.
"Come on," he says softly. "Let's get back."
She picks up her shoes, and she looks so adorable standing there swinging them that he does it without thinking – takes her hand, laces his fingers through hers. She looks up at him and smiles, swings their arms a little as they walk back to his apartment.
When they get back he gives her one of his t-shirts to change into and pours her a glass of water, leaves it on the nightstand in the spare room for her. "Goodnight," he says, knocking lightly on the door of the bathroom.
"Night," she replies, muffled by her toothbrush. He goes to bed with a stupid smile on his face.
In the morning, she shuffles into the kitchen as he's making toast – he turns to ask her if she wants coffee but the words get lost on the way to his mouth. She stands leaning against the counter in his t-shirt and her underwear, every gorgeous inch of her legs bare, her hair messed up on one side. She smiles self-consciously, a hint of a blush rising in her cheeks.
They both begin talking at the same time, then stop, laugh, and he turns away, chastising himself. You're a grown man, he tells himself. They're just legs. But they're not. He turns back, fixes his eyes on hers. "You first."
"I'm sorry," she says. "For showing up. I just… Honestly, I didn't realise I was coming here until I got out of the cab." He laughs and she shakes her head, smiling, looks down at her feet then back up at him, wonderfully domestic in socks, jeans and a t-shirt, a butter knife in one hand. "I guess I felt crappy after seeing those people, and I…"
He drops the knife and he's coming toward her before he knows what he's doing, his hand on her face, winding into her hair. Her eyes widen and her head tilts, her lips part, then his other hand is on her waist and she's up on her toes and he's pulling her closer, their lips meeting – soft at first then desperate, like they might never stop. When he pulls back to breathe, his hand is under her t-shirt, resting against the curve of her lower back, and her chest rises and falls quickly as she drops back onto flat feet. She smiles, touching his cheek softly with her fingertips. "That – that was nice," she says.
He nods, kisses her forehead. He's still not quite sure what just happened, or what they're going to do about it, but he does know it's been a long time coming and it feels better than anything has for more years than he's willing to admit. "Please don't apologise for showing up."