Author's Note: Hey all. Time's been slipping again, but I should have another push of updates this coming weekend.

For here, picking up the next morning after their late night.

Tuesday

Playing Hooky Before Hotch Gets A Clue

Emily woke up the next morning with a funny feeling in her stomach.

It wasn't that she was nauseous, just . . . her brow wrinkled . . . something felt off.

But it wasn't really anything physical.

So when Hotch rolled over to kiss her good morning, she made sure to give him a bright smile. She didn't want him to worry, especially when there really wasn't anything wrong. She felt fine.

Mostly.

Yeah, there was the usual bit of lightheadedness when she sat up, but that was normal. For these days anyway.

And she was sure that whatever the thing was that was giving her the funny feeling . . . she turned to swing her feet to the carpet . . . she'd figure it out soon enough.

/*/*/*/

"Hey, are you terribly busy today?"

Hotch looked up from his stack of consults to see Emily leaning against his open office door.

His eyes crinkled slightly.

"Not terribly," his eyebrow inched up, "why? What's up?"

She gave him a wistful smile, and her voice was soft.

"I'd like to see the water."

Then she stepped a little farther into the room.

"Do you think that we could do that? Go somewhere?"

Slipping out of the office to play hooky was practically unheard of . . . okay, completely unheard of, it just wasn't done . . . but she still had to ask the question. Because that was the funny feeling she'd had when she'd woken up.

Claustrophobia.

The walls of her life were suddenly closing around here. And she needed to leave this structured world that was boxing her in. She needed to leave it more than anything.

But she wasn't going to go without him.

For a moment Hotch stared back at Emily, his upper teeth digging into his lower lip. He was mentally reviewing his day. Finally he nodded.

"Yeah," his lip quirked up, "we can do that. Just give me ten minutes to pack a bag."

As of now, he only had one scheduled meeting . . . a touch base call with a detective out in Wyoming . . . and he could do that on the road. Of course on an ordinary day he would never suddenly 'take off' in the middle of a work week . . . not even for his Emily . . . but they'd left ordinary days behind them.

It had been five weeks since they'd had an ordinary day.

He missed them.

"'K," Emily's eyes crinkled as she whispered back, "thanks, hon."

Then she leaned in a little further to blow him a kiss . . . his blinds were closed so nobody could see through the glass . . . and turned to go back down and grab her own stuff from her desk.

By the time they had finished packing their files and laptops, it was a little before ten. Before they left, Hotch poked his head into Dave's office to tell him that he and Emily would be working out of the office for the rest of the day, but that they had their phones. And seeing Dave's confused eyebrow inching up . . . the "where are you going?" about to pop out of his mouth . . . Hotch turned and hightailed it out of there.

He didn't want to give Rossi the chance to ask that follow-up question.

From there, with Emily giving a half wave to Morgan and Reid who were watching them with the same confusion that Hotch had seen on Dave's face, they headed out. It wasn't until they'd actually reached the parking garage, and had climbed into the jeep, that Hotch asked for their specific destination.

After all, technically, water was all around them.

But for reasons that didn't even seem entirely clear to her, Emily decided on Virginia Beach. It was a bit of a drive, but . . . he put the Cherokee into gear . . . completely doable for a day trip.

So off they went.

And with Hotch making judicious use of both his offensive driving skills, and his rather extensive knowledge of the back roads of the Commonwealth, they made the three hour drive to Virginia's southeast coast, in just under two and a half hours.

Emily napped half the way.

After they arrived in the city . . . at twelve twenty on the dot . . . Hotch insisted on getting something to eat before they went to the beach itself. So they went to a local restaurant he'd been to before (a rape case some years earlier had brought him to the area for a few days) and dined on lobster rolls and sweet potato fries. And seeing that Emily was already laughing and joking around before they'd even reached the water itself . . . she'd been in high spirits since she'd woken up from her nap . . . Hotch decided that agreeing to take the day off had already been completely worth it.

Then just as he put his arm up for the check, she suddenly grinned and leaned over to snatch the last cooling fry off of his plate. When she popped it into her mouth and sat back with a smirk, he felt a warmth spreading in his chest . . . remembrance of their early days together last summer, those lunches that had carried their relationship forward . . . he shot her a dimple. And then the other one just for the hell of it.

There was no price on those memories.

/*/*/*/

Four hours after they'd left Big Sam's Inlet & Cafe, Emily dropped her case file down into the sand next to her bag. Then she leaned back in her beach chair . . . after lunch Hotch had made a quick run into Target for the chair, some sunscreen, and couple bottles of water . . . and turned her face towards the sun.

Feeling the warmth of it beat down on her extremely pale winter skin, her lip quirked up as she wriggled her toes further into the tawny granules on the beach.

She was feeling very content. Very at peace.

Very happy.

Some people might see that as an unexpected state of being given her overall diagnosis, not to mention the general decline recently in her energy levels, but screw that. It had been a good day no matter how anyone cut it, and she was going to enjoy all of her good days, and all of her mediocre ones too, without making any 'quantification' or deference to the status of her general health. That would be a pathetic way to live.

Really, no way to live at all.

Of course . . . her gaze shifted down . . . she knew that the main reason for her general happiness, and all of her good days, was hunched over (sitting on his folded suit jacket) in the sand by her feet. And it came as no surprise to Emily that Hotch gave off the same serious . . . and imposing . . . mystique, while sitting and working on the beach, as he did sitting and working in his office. She huffed to herself.

He was just a badass wherever he went.

But then seeing a sudden breeze ruffle the contents of his open file, her eyes crinkled when he smacked his hand down on a crime scene photo that tried to go rogue.

She reached over to tousle his hair.

"Aaron?" She murmured.

Hotch responded with a distracted, "mmmm" as he finished reading the last sentence of his ninth autopsy report that afternoon. Then he looked up to give Emily his full attention.

She deserved no less.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

Before she could respond, he reached up to tuck Jack's fire truck blanket more snugly around her waist.

It wasn't very big, but it was the only blanket that they'd had in the jeep.

"Are you getting cold?" He asked with a faintly worried rub of her leg. "Because you know you're usually cold anyway, and it is getting a bit breezy."

Winters in Virginia Beach were warmer than even Washington's, which were usually pretty mild themselves, but winter was still winter, and the last thing she needed was to catch a chill.

Even as she shook her head, Emily was shooting Hotch a soft smile at his overprotectiveness.

"No, I'm fine hon, thanks." Then she patted her lap, "Jack's blanket is warmer than it looks. I was actually just thinking, and uh," she smiled, "well, I was wondering what your favorite Halloween costume was when you were little?"

For all of the Lightning Rounds that they'd played over the summer, this was one question that had never come up before. But for some reason . . . just as she'd closed her last file . . . it had suddenly popped into her head. Sometimes your brain was funny like that.

The random associations it made.

But seeing one of Hotch's dimples make a fleeting appearance, she knew that the question . . . the weirdness of it . . . was at least providing him some amusement as well.

"Favorite Halloween costume?" He repeated back, "well," he tipped his head slightly to the side, "I believe that was year seven. I went as Ranger Rick."

Seeing Emily's eyes pop out just as her mouth started to open, he raised a hand to cut her off.

"Uh," he shook his head, "I don't want to hear it, Prentiss. I had just started Boy Scouts and was going through a wilderness phase." Then he rolled his eyes slightly, "was it unusual that I chose to go as a talking raccoon? Perhaps. But I was seven, and," he finished with a satisfied smirk, "I had a great coonskin cap that I'd found at my grandparents' house in Charleston, and really no other way I could wear it."

He then raised an eyebrow, daring her to make fun.

"Your turn," he prompted with another tip of his head.

Emily had been biting her lip at the image of a tiny little suited Hotch . . . essentially Jack . . . wearing a big fur hat on his head. But then seeing the challenging look that he was shooting her, she finally lost the battle to stifle her amusement. She erupted in laughter.

"Really, Aaron," she snorted, "NO other way you could wear it?! How about you could have gone as Davy Crockett like," she rolled her eyes, "I don't know, EVERY other red blooded little American boy that's ever owned a raccoon cap! And my favorite costume," she pressed her hand to her chest, "Wonder Woman, of course." She shot him a grin, "some profiler you are!"

Then she shook her head and started laughing again.

"A talking raccoon," she repeated with a chuckle while leaning down to plant a quick kiss on his lips, "God, I love you."

As Emily sat back with a huff, Hotch gave her a soft smile.

Even if she was busting his chops . . . not to mention unjustly disparaging his Ranger Rick outfit . . . it didn't matter. Not a bit. Just hearing her laughter carrying on the wind was enough. And he realized then that he would have happily set up house on that beach, if it meant more days like today.

Perfect days.

But then as Emily brushed a strand of hair back from her cheek, his gaze caught on the fading pink scar on her forehead. That was the remaining physical evidence of her fall last month. The fall that had landed her in the hospital . . . his eyes dropped down to the sand as his smile fell away . . . and them at the radiation clinic five days a week.

Noting from Hotch's pensive stare down to the ground, that some errant thought was distracting him, Emily's remaining amusement faded. Then she squeezed his hand.

"What is it?" She asked softly. And he looked back up with a sad smile.

"The team," he responded in the same tone, "it's time, sweetheart."

This was the conversation that he was going to have with her on Sunday . . . but the day had gotten away from him.

That happened so often now.

Emily bit her cheek.

"I know," she took a breath, her lips curving in the same melancholy smile, "it is time. So," she slowly exhaled, "how about Thursday we'll invite them all over and tell them this," she squeezed his hand again, "and 'this," she tapped the side of her skull.

Then she continued with a slow exhale.

"They'll probably figure something's up just by us jointly inviting them to 'my' place. But I don't want to tell them in the office. It wouldn't be right," she sighed, "because I know that if it was one of them that was sick, I wouldn't want to get that kind of news and then be expected to just go back and sit at my desk. It would be cruel."

No matter how you cut it, the conversation was going to suck . . . but it had to be done. More and more often now, she needed to take a nap after work. And even the naps themselves were getting longer. The other day it had taken Hotch almost ten minutes just to wake her up for dinner.

She was going to have to start cutting back her hours.

Maybe as early as next week.

Feeling an ache starting in his chest . . . reality catching up with them . . . Hotch's brow knitted together as he reached up to tug Emily out of her chair and down into his lap. There he tucked her in close and wrapped his arms around her body.

Jack's blanket was caught under his fingers.

As long as they would be together . . . and as always his hope was that they had decades to go . . . he doubted that he would ever cease to be amazed by her depths of empathy and compassion. She was worried about the team. Of course HE was worried about the team too, but he wasn't the one that was sick! And as she laid her head onto his shoulder he looked out at the surf.

The tide was starting to roll in.

With a faint burning in his eyes, Hotch tipped his head forward slightly to bury his face in Emily's hair. As he'd hoped, the warm, clean smell of her shampoo mixed with the salty ocean spray in her loose strands, helped to ward off the looming melancholy. There was no place for that.

No time for that.

Feeling Hotch's chest hitch as he took a breath, Emily knew that his brain had gone to an unhelpful place. Sometimes it was his brain . . . sometimes it was hers . . . but either way they always got through these hiccups together. So she picked up his hand.

"Hey, I'm here," she murmured with a kiss to his fingers, "and I'm okay."

She felt the rumble of laughter in his chest, just before the quiet chuckle into her hair.

"Prentiss the Prognosticator," he huffed.

To that she responded with an unladylike snort of, "and don't you forget it, buddy," as she lightly tapped the back of his hand. And when he tucked her against his chest again and kissed her cheek, she knew then that he was better. Because prognostication or not, as always these days, she knew exactly what he was thinking. As he did with her.

They were perfectly matched.

Truly.

It had been twenty-three days exactly since their talk in that hospital exam room, but there had been no bumps in the transition from their old life to their new. Everything was the same as before . . . but better. Even living with the cancer, it was still . . . she clutched his fingers to her cheek . . .somuch better. In retrospect she supposed that their behavioral training was to be thanked, at least in part, for helping them along what could have been a very rough patch for a very new relationship. Because on both sides, moods were read easily, and space was given, or comfort extended, without any need for the usual stops and starts of difficult conversations.

Of course joint behavioral analysis wasn't a magic potion to make a perfect relationship. But all the rest of it . . . forget the cancer, just the regular stuff that could make a relationship hard . . . Bureau policies, their streaks of independence and stubbornness, his insistence on buying cinnamon toothpaste, or her belief that ketchup was kept in the refrigerator, those things weren't important anymore.

In the grand scheme few of them really are.

But unlike most people who get bogged down in the life stuff, they didn't have the time to waste on any of the little dramas. And for that, and foronlythat, they could thank the cancer. That was their big Drama with a capital D. So the rest of it was all . . . whatever.

Truly, she just didn't give a shit.

Although . . . she huffed faintly to herself . . . she would almost place a cash bet that after Reid heard the news about them living together AND her tumor, he would tell them that statistically the strain of a serious illness often tore relationships apart.

And that was probably true.

But the numbers went both ways. And in this regard, in this relationship, their numbers were coming up black. That was a blessing. And for that, for Hotch, and Jack, her sweet little mini Hotch, she would always be grateful without any reservation or quantification. They had a good life.

And that was more than a lot of people could say.

That was the moment that Emily felt a little shiver go down her spine. Not from the thought, but from the breeze. It had really picked up.

The breeze was actually more of a 'wind' now.

She rubbed her hand down Hotch's arm . . . yep, his skin was ice cold.

Earlier that afternoon he'd rolled his dress sleeves up, and she could feel the goosebumps that had formed on his exposed forearm. But that wasn't really a surprise. The temperature had probably dropped ten degrees since they'd first arrived at the beach.

Their shadows were starting to get long.

Emily leaned back so she could see Hotch's face.

"Honey," she patted his cheek, "I think it's time to go. As great as this day has been, and by the way, thank you again for dropping off the radar with me, you're turning into a Hotchcicle. And if you get the sniffles," her lip quirked up, "who then will cater to my every whim?"

Hotch's mouth quivered.

"No comment."

Then with a groan he wrapped his arm around her waist and stood up, pulling her up off the ground with him. Then he brushed the sand off her suit pants before turning to do the same for his own.

"Okay, sweetheart," he slowly exhaled as he straightened again, "grab your boots and Jack's blankie. We roll out in five."

It took everything in her for Emily to not burst out laughing at the convergence of the "Hotch" and "Aaron" personas which resulted in the combination of "blankie" and "roll out" coming from him in the same breath.

So she bit down her laughter by responding in kind with a formal, "yes sir," while popping up on her toes to give him a quick kiss.

The man was crazy, but the man was hers!

Hotch winked as Emily pulled away. Then he stooped down to pick up his jacket and zip up his bag. And then he waited while Emily finished pulling on her socks and boots . . . while unsuccessfully trying to avoid getting sand in them . . . and grabbing her own consults off the ground.

As he looked down at her zipping up her own bag, Hotch absentmindedly ran his thumb along the corner of his mouth.

It came back with a smear of orangey gloss on it.

He'd recently learned that color was called "Rapture," and second only to "Flame" as Emily's favorite shade of lipstick. Two months ago Hotch wouldn't have known that those were vitally important facts to possess.

Two month ago he was an idiot.

And as she slid the strap of her bag onto her shoulder, he folded up the small beach chair. He hooked it over his own shoulder . . . where his own bag was already hanging . . . for the relatively short walk back to the jeep. Then, once he was ready to go, he turned to ask Emily if she was all set too.

That's when he saw her staring out at the rising tide. The water was creeping up the sand, coming closer and closer with each wave that lapped the beach.

Her hands were on her hips.

He gave her a minute . . . and then one more. Finally he took a breath.

"You ready to go, sweetheart?" He asked quietly.

When Emily turned back towards him, the wind caught her hair. A few glossy strands whipped across her face just as her lips curved in a soft smile.

"I am."

And she turned and started walking across the sand, kicking aside broken seashells as she went. He quickly caught up, and they'd only taken a few more steps on the shifting ground, before she reached over to loosely grasp the fingers of his free hand.

She held onto them for the rest of the walk back to the jeep.

A jeep which hadn't looked quite so solitary when they'd parked there at one, but the few other mid-winter beachcombers had started to leave when the temperatures began to fall.

They were the only ones left.

Hotch had just finished storing their new sand chair in the backseat, when he heard Emily from across the hood.

"I think I'd like to drive back."

In the relative silence of the empty parking area, her sudden words caught him by surprise. He slammed the door shut and his gaze shifted up and over to see her smiling at him.

Her eyes were shining as she tucked her hair back behind her ear. His lip quirked up . . . and he tossed her the keys.

She caught them one handed.

"Then come on, Agent Prentiss," his eyes crinkling as he started around the front of the Cherokee, "let's roll."

/*/*/*/

Four hours later, Emily was sitting on the couch drinking a cup of peppermint tea and watching a rerun of NCIS. It was one of the few 'popular' shows that she actually watched. Initially, Hotch tolerated it with only a few vague grumblings about the implausibility of how quickly their crimes were solved . . . "really Emily, everything wraps up in twenty-four hours?" . . . but she'd noticed that lately he was getting into it a bit more.

He seemed to like Gibbs.

Though at present she was watching Gibbs by herself.

They'd arrived home from Virginia Beach around six-thirty. And after dinner, (a quick fix of spaghetti and formerly frozen meatballs), she had decided to take a little nap, and Hotch had decided to throw in a load of laundry. She'd woken up twenty minutes ago, but she hadn't seen him come back yet.

But, oh . . . her eyebrow inched up as she heard the locks turning and then the door opening . . . speak of the devil.

"Hey, honey," she put the TV on mute before turning to give him a little smile, "how goes the laundry battle?"

So far laundry was the only chore that she'd handed over to him completely, and she'd done it with little complaint. Given that she was now prone to fainting spells, and she'd actually had one on her way TO the laundry room, resulting in a full tumble down the stairs, she felt that she'd pushed her luck enough in that area of the building.

She had no desire to take another bullet for the laundry room team.

Hotch walked down the hall with the laundry basket on his hip. When he stopped in front of the couch, he put it down onto the hardwood, and picked up something dark from the top of the folded pile. As his gaze shifted to hers, his eyes crinkled.

"You had on a red dress."

Emily's face scrunched up as she shifted around and dropped her feet to the floor.

"What?"

Hotch's lip quirked up as he thought back to that night . . . the night which had changed his life.

"It was a sundress," he continued softly, "and your hair was pulled back with little curls hanging down on the sides. I could smell peppermint on your breath. And when you tripped, I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling," his lip quirked up, "because you looked absolutely adorable."

Feeling tears welling in her eyes, Emily's fist clenched on her chest.

Oh . . . she bit down a sob . . . he remembered!

Hotch shook out the item in his hand . . . his black Rolling Stones concert t-shirt. After he'd put in all of the other dark wash, he'd stood there in the laundry room staring at that damn shirt through half the first rinse cycle. He'd been wracking his brain trying to figure out what the significance of it was to Emily.

She couldn't keep her hands off him when he wore it.

Not that he was complaining, mind you, but his curiosity about it had been getting the better of him. She really wasn't that into the Stones, or even concerts in general . . . she said they were generally a lot of hassle, and she didn't like crowds . . . but then his eyes had locked onto the date printed on the shirt. That's when he'd finally registered the significance of this particular concert tour.

It was the summer of 1995.

The summer when they first met.

That was the year he'd had his security assignment at her mother's house. And one night as he was leaving, Emily, in all of her beautiful, utterly graceless, glory, had tripped walking in the front door, and fallen straight into his arms.

It was a moment that he'd thought of time and again over the subsequent years. And seeing then that Emily was about to start crying . . . though they did at least appear to be happy tears . . . he leaned down to give her a kiss.

She immediately threw her arms around his neck.

"I can't believe you remember that night too," she sniffled in his ear, "I thought I was the only one."

"Of course I remember," he whispered back, "that's the night I met the love of my life."

Emily sniffled again as she pulled back to give him a watery smile.

"You couldn't have known that then."

His palm came up to cup her jaw.

"Maybe I did know," he winked, "but I just didn't know it yet."

Then he placed the shirt on the edge of the sofa as he sat down, before pulling Emily over into his lap. And with her still sniffling, he rested his chin on the top of her head.

"The next day," he continued softly, "I told your mother that when I was leaving, I'd run into a young dark haired woman letting herself into the house. I asked who she was."

When Emily huffed, Hotch gave a lofty explanation for his inquiry.

"Of course it was under the pretext of reviewing the security procedures. I needed to know who had been issued keys to the family home."

Emily snorted as she patted his arm where it was wrapped around her waist.

"Hadn't you seen a picture of me by then?"

Funny, her mother had never mentioned any of this to her. Not that she necessarily would have, but God, super adorable FBI agent asks who she was, you'd think her mother would have at least mentioned it in PASSING!

But then Emily remembered that Hotch was married back then. Very married. So that clearly would NOT have been an 'acquaintanceship' the ambassador would have been looking to encourage!

God forbid there had been a scandal!

Hotch gave Emily a little squeeze.

"Well," he tipped his head, "yes. Yes, I had seen your picture the afternoon before. And your mother may or may not have busted my balls somewhat ruthlessly on that point."

Hearing Emily's amused chuckle, Hotch kissed her temple.

"So," he slowly exhaled, "why didn't you just mention the significance of the date last month when you first found the shirt?"

Emily smiled as she rubbed her hand up and down Hotch's chest, feeling the vibration of his heart thumping beneath her palm.

"I figured that you'd think I was being silly," she answered softly.

Hotch huffed.

"I was a married man back then, happily married, I might add, but I was still struck by how beautiful you looked that night."

His gaze dropped down then to see the Emily of over a decade later. There in her faded grey hoodie and pink pajama pants . . . each with the (expected) spaghetti stain on them from dinner. She'd scrubbed off her makeup when they'd gotten home, and pulled her hair up in a messy ponytail. He nuzzled her throat, hiding his smile as he whispered.

"You're even more beautiful now."

A/N 2: Ranger Rick, he is actually a 'plot point' that will come up later, so don't forget the story :)

And NCIS, to date, it is the only 'scripted' popular show I have Emily watching. But I could just see Hotch rolling his eyes at it, until he found a kindred spirit in Gibbs. So given that Gibb is fictional here, I guess we won't be doing any NCIS crossovers in the girl'verse :)