Work Text:
"Hey, Aaron, you got a sec?"
Round three of Kate pulling Aaron aside for yet another hushed chat and those oh-so-conspiratorial smiles. Whatever the reason, it's apparently classified. Meanwhile, Emily's over here just trying to do the job—just her job, people. For crying out loud.
Multitasking is child's play. That's why Emily's focused on the images on the computer while absolutely not gnawing her nails out of jealousy. Because it's not real jealousy—obviously. That's not her thing. She and Hotch are about as committed as oil is to water. No reason to feel jealous of anyone, least of all her boss.
Except... her neck's doing the whole sweat-and-itch thing? Every time Miss I-Could-Be-Haley's-Sister so much as exists in his vicinity? So maybe—just maybe—she's letting some long-buried, poorly-timed feelings bubble up to the surface. Now this is bad timing. And it's all her fault. All she has to do is not look, not care, and definitely not notice how Kate’s hand is locked around his wrist as she flashes a smile, and there's like—those blue eyes, then she taps her heel back into the office.
Hotch just stands there, staring at the spot where she just was, then down at his coffee.
He takes a sip.
Emily's not okay. And, well, it's kind of hard to pretend she is when the nicest part of her—like the tiniest, most self-contained sliver of decency—is quietly wishing Hotch would choke on his coffee. Not like a fatal choke, obviously, but enough to—what? Teach him a lesson? For flirting with someone? For having that conversation when he could've been standing right next to Emily asking, "Find anything?" And if that's the nicest part of her talking, then maybe—just maybe—she's not exactly an angel with wings in this moment.
"Hotch isn't going to be much use today, apparently," Morgan comments. Emily's head jerks to the left, her throat dry, a set of words... almost there. Says... none of them. Morgan adds: "Kate train hit him."
She pulls at the corner of her bottom lip, yikes, "I hope she gives him his brain back when she's done."
"Spence has enough to squeeze a spare one if it comes to it," JJ jokes.
Ugh, none of this is funny to Emily—not in the slightest. She's sick to her stomach. Nauseous, even. But that doesn't stop her from letting out a half-hearted nasal laugh. Because, well, profilers are vultures, sniffing for signs, and if they even think something's off, it's game over for her.
But... but she's so stupid. She forgets how stupid she can be sometimes. Professional? Sure. Smart? Yeah. Mature? You bet. A good person with a good heart? She'd like to think so. But when it comes to these things? The second Hotch comes strolling over, parks behind her chair, she blurts, "Glad you made time for us, sir. We have coverage in almost all areas."
There's this pause, long enough to fit—what?—all of Russia in it? And then there's the embarrassment, floods her cheeks when JJ blinks at her in pure shock. Shit. Just... shit. She's already praying her third silent prayer for mercy when Hotch's voice chimes in: "How many more to go?"
Emily swallows hard. "Four."
"Morgan, stay alert. Prentiss, come with me."
-
"I know, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that—" She blurts the second they're face to face on the emergency stairs, and Hotch just... gives her that opening. It's better than a scolding. So much better.
"We were laughing—just," shit. Yeah, that just made it worse, didn't it? She crosses her arms, trying to avoid a whiplash of eye contact. Because, God, when he does that thing with his eyes—cold, with a storm—it might as well be a curse on the next eight generations of her. For having a mouth the size of Texas, obviously. Never knows when to zip it.
Emily sighs, shoulders slumping a little. "To imply anything other than that this case is your priority was wrong. That won't happen again, sir."
"You're right, it won't," he mutters, muffled serious, hot tone that pounds in Emily's ears. Nice. Okay. Focus. "You're gonna take five in here, and the next time you pull something like that in front of the team, there will be consequences," and that's pretty much all he says. Then he takes a step up, grabs the heavy door that leads inside, and with one yank, it swings open. "I hope I made myself clear."
Fucking annoying little nail worming its way between her teeth.
-
Kate doesn't help. At all. And Emily dares to think Kate knows exactly how hard she's staring every time she leans in to break the personal space barrier—whispering something in Hotch's ear or resting a hand on his shoulder. It's maddening. Worse, Kate seems to enjoy it, raising a smug eyebrow and flashing a not-so-friendly smile in Emily's direction. What an evil little bitch. Emily barely has time to process it when she's paired with one of Kate's guys—at Hotch's behest, no less—for a visit to the subway station. Duty calls, after all.
But just as she's trying to get back on track, Kate slithers over like the snake she probably is. "I asked him to, so you wouldn't have to keep watching. It must be really hard," she says, all faux sympathy and saccharine venom. Then, with a tilt of her head: "But I want you to know it's completely normal. I was head over heels for my former director for two years. What a nightmare."
Emily could literally throw up on her feet. Kate's a hell of a mean little thing, and is this how you get bullied in school?
Emily's only heard about it—she's been homeschooled most of her life, and when she wasn't, there was no room for petty bullying—but this? This is it, right? Essentially.
Fuck, was Kate talking to Hotch about this? And is he actually encouraging her with this patronizing bullshit? You know what? She doesn't even wanna know. She leaves. Doesn't say a word.
Heads back to the office later and decides to do whatever Hotch asks—just her job. Nothing more.
Later, someone dies because of a decision Kate made, and when Morgan accuses Hotch of not being in his right mind, and Kate's gotta be the reason, Emily stays quiet. All the biteable bits of her nails gone earlier.
A few minutes later, Kate sits down next to her.
"Hey," she starts.
Emily doesn't even hesitate. She grabs her things off the desk, stands up, and bye bye. Just follows Morgan's path, not bothering to look back. She's got a sneaking suspicion that the footsteps trailing behind her are Hotch's, but she refuses to check, only confirming it when she stops in front of the elevator and he's standing beside her.
"Where are you going?" he asks.
"You probably shouldn't stretch the leash that much, that can't be comfortable."
"Emily," he says, stepping in front of her, and she crosses her arms over her chest, trying to hold back the heart that threatens to leap out of her when her name drips off his lips like that. "I can excuse Morgan. He thinks I'm favoring Kate's position here, that I'm trying to keep him on the team by taking her side. His frustration is understandable. But you?"
"I'm headed to the hotel to take a shower. That’s all, and it's just... case’s getting to me, probably,” voice awful, a weird, choked knot forming as the words stumble out. She scratches her throat, trying to push it away. Okay, stop. Stop. "Stop looking at me like that. There's nothing to profile."
"I really hope this isn't what it looks like."
Is it any less of a broken heart when the finish line is confession, but you don't even make it there before rejection? Emily's eyes roll back in her head, even though all she wants is for the ground to swallow her whole—sink her down to the parking lot so she doesn't have to wait for the stupid elevator, or look at Hotch and his damn brown eyes, or think about those dimples just popping so damn effortlessly, or have his cologne shove itself right up her nostrils.
"Does it look like I'm upset? And exhausted? Because, wow, that'd be pretty accurate."
A few seconds of stiff silence pass, eye contact, and Hotch finally concedes, "You can't, you know that. You deserve this unit, you belong in the BAU, and this is just... too complicated. Those two things combined. You have to know."
"You think I have a crush on you or something? Is that what you think?" she spits out, just as the elevator doors slide open. She steps forward, circling him. "Jesus, Hotch, you can relax."
The doors are two inches from closing when she hears him say, "I'm gonna need you to call when you get there."
-
"Made it in one piece," she says, as soon as he picks up.
"Good.”
She lingers on the line a little too long, phone pressed to her ear. "That's when you hang up."
"Take your time. But come back. I need my team."
"Got it."
-
She hasn't exactly worked through the emotional dumpster fire, but she's managed to duct-tape herself together just enough to survive another late-night desk pattern.
She's got to show up—priorities and all.
Future her can deal with it... way, way later.
-
"Prentiss, you're with us," Hotch tells her two hours later, the flick of his finger making it clear they'll be sharing this ride. What for? She has no idea.
Emily's frown is immediate, her head snapping to him as fast as Kate's.
"What? Why?" she asks.
"Yeah, why?" Kate chimes in, clearly doubling down.
"Just." Hotch gives a vague nod toward the elevator, not in a mood to explain.
Orders are orders, but damn, this is going to suck.
-
So, the car's going... somewhere. Destination? No clue. Something vague about 'getting real food' for the poor souls stuck in the office surviving on cold pizza. Because, apparently, delivery doesn't exist. Sure, fine. Not her problem. She's keeping her mouth shut on this one. Emily is praying she can just melt into the backseat leather, and the conversation takes a hard left into 'next potential bomb spots.' Which is an okay topic for now. Appropriate, even. She's fine with it.
Then Kate goes, "How's your son?"
Hotch doesn't make it weird when he replies. Good. "He's better now. Divorce is confusing for him."
Emily hears that and thinks, 'Yup, rough stuff.' Child of a divorce. Been there. Nine years old. You don't forget.
At least Kate doesn't nudge further, at least she is scratching on a safe layer. "The Koch Theater's been renovated. Bigger orchestra pit, and they have a much fancier lighting now. We should go. When we're done with the case."
Very subtle.
Obviously not a team invite, but Hotch mutters, "Yeah, I'll run it by the group."
Emily, unable to resist, jumps in: "Pretty sure she meant just the two of you."
"Well, I can't argue with a profiler, can I," Kate confirms. Of course, she does.
-
Ten minutes into the table-sharing, Kate announces she's off to touch up her lipstick.
Emily watches her leave, eyes narrowed.
Hotch slips effortlessly into her personal space—not that it's a challenge, given he's right next to her—and she feels it before she sees it. The fine hairs on her arm standing to attention. When she turns, his face is barely half an arm's length away. "Do you want that Beef on Weck thing here?" he asks, dead serious.
She turns to him, one brow arched so high it's in orbit. "Are you actually asking me that right now?"
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. For the first time ever, Aaron Hotchner looks like he's malfunctioning.
Oh, fantastic. Now Emily's the bad guy? Awesome. And her stomach's doing that weird flip thing. It's his stupid eyes, all wide and Bambi-esque. A dimple. A freaking dimple-show when he pulls his lips to the side like he's just a little bit fucking upset. What is this, conspiracy? Still looks so charming. And sweet. Get it together, Emily. Focus. He's the mean one. Public Enemy Number One. Do not fall for the dimple.
"Why are we here?" she demands, crossing her arms.
"To eat," Hotch says, gesturing at the menu with a look that's somehow confused and infuriatingly calm. "Kate thought we should grab food. We'll take some back."
"Oh, sure," she snaps. "Nothing pairs better with city-wide bombings than a Beef on Weck. What's next, dessert at the morgue?" She shifts in her chair, just this... this close to bolt. Leave them to it. "Hotch, I can't do this. Why. Are. We. Here?"
And then she leans in, bit too much, gravity's got it out for her. They're close now—too close—She's got actual chest cramps—like, what even is that—and her eyes, completely betraying her, drift to his mouth, perfectly set in that straight line. "Don't do this to me." Pleads, really, Emily pleads, because that's all there is to do. This hurts her. And she doesn't need it- it's avoidable. Is he trying to make a point of something? Is he trying to punish her for acting like a bitch all day? Is that it? Hotch watches her in silence, complete-not a word, for so much time it reopens a wound lodged under her ribs, the want and the yearn is probably making a dance all over her face, and Emily traps her lips under her top teeth but looking away is not an option. "Okay, listen, I get it. Whatever, I'll deal with these feelings later," she admits it, finally.
Not that it wasn't obvious. He probably figured it out ages ago—on the stairs when he scolded at her, or maybe two months ago after that 'arm-in-arm' thing in the briefing room? Mortifying. Maybe he'd always known—since the first handshake, even. But this? The jealousy on display? Not exactly her finest moment. So, alright, let's lay all the cards on the table, shall we? "Once we're back in DC, everything will be sunshine and rainbows.”
"Where Kate isn't," he says, shooting her a look. "So, what's the plan when another woman I've known forever strolls into the picture? Let me guess: more of this?"
Her jaw drops. Not exactly what she was expecting hearing. "Wait, you think I'm—"
"I'm saying she's a friend. An old friend. Yeah, maybe she's got some interest, but I'm not biting. Haven't been, won't be. And in case you missed it, I brought you along on purpose—to see this for yourself. So maybe, just maybe, you can stop turning me into your personal chew toy."
Oh.
For a second, her composure is shit. She clears her throat, straightens her posture, and doesn't look in his eyes. Is he... is he explaining himself? To her? Why? Not that she minds, of course. There's a certain satisfaction in it. But what does it mean? Does it mean he doesn't really mind about how she feels? Or worse—does he pity her? Because if it's pity? Oh, great, just bury her now.
Out of the corner of her eye, she catches it: the faintest hint of a dimple. A smile—small, but unmistakable. Her eyebrows lower as her tongue presses into her cheek. It's not like she blushes. I mean, she doesn't. Not usually. Not ever, really. But if there were a her-blushing scenario—hypothetically speaking—this would be it. A faint hint of heat creeping across her otherwise stone-cold expression. Her face just got a firmware update she didn't authorize. "I'm sorry, am I entertaining you? Is this funny to you?"
"Oh, no, your behavior right now isn't the least bit entertaining. Why would it be?" he says as he leans back in his seat. When Emily catches his eye, he's already tracing a path down the hallway. Probably Kate. Done and dusted, heading back. "I think we can have a proper meal now," he remarks, his gaze shifting to her fingers tapping the table. "Maybe something more appetizing than your nails."
-
It happens just outside the restaurant. Yeah, she ate Beef on Weck. She's a step ahead of them—partly because she's got bags to toss in the backseat, but mostly because she's not exactly itching to hear Kate's grand plans about buying a penthouse next year. The sound of the door opening barely registers before there's a flash—then darkness—then absolutely nothing.
-
Later... seems to be much later, there's pain. Not sharp, but well shared, like a fever. The second her eyes flutter open, she's staring at a New York sky. It's too loud, and too quiet, and it takes her way too long to figure out what's happening. She can't move, her mouth tastes like copper.
"Stay down," Hotch says, sounds distant and warped. She can barely blink, let alone get up.
But he's frantic, desperate.
"You're bleeding," she points out.
“It’s nothing.”
“Help me get up. I'm gonna be fine," she says, forcing herself to crane her neck. She sees the mess—dozens of people scattered, the sirens wailing in the distance. "Help others, Hotch." He's pulling her coat off her shoulder, not moving. Not at all. "Not me. Them."
"Stop talking," he says as he shifts her slow, tugs her shirt up to see her back. The cold bites at her skin, the city starting to slip away from her eyes. "Shit."
"Bad, huh?" she says, feeling tears begin to want out. His hand is gentle on her face, his touch so nice. She knows she's dying, that's why he's being cute with it. Sometimes profiling is such a curse. His lips brush her forehead. One. Two times.
"Where's Kate?"
"Helping someone back there," he replies.
“Am I dying?"
"You're not dying," he answers too quickly, but the third kiss on her forehead says otherwise. His hand shakes as it cups her face, and her lips twitch, her eyelids begging to rest. Just a nap. Just a little bit. "Help is on the way. Stay with me, okay?" he says, panic creeping.
She starts to drift.
"Open. Eyes open, Emily." His voice sounds too far away, even though he's right there.
"It's okay, Hotch," she whispers.
"It's not okay," he pleads, looking around as the ambulance nears. "It's not okay."
He grabs her hand, rubs her knuckles a little too hard. It doesn't hurt—she can't even feel it anymore—pain. All she feels is him, and honestly, it's not the worst way to go. To be kissed, to be cared for by the man you love.
"I can transfer. I can do anything for you. Who cares about the headache this will be. I’ll even quit, Emily. Do you want me to quit? I changed my mind. I want you. You can't do that now. I want you."
"You do?" she murmurs, managing the faintest tug of a smile—God, she's so gonna die. It's just so her, always almost there, always just a breath away.
Hotch nods, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. This... this is nice. Knowing this. Not too late, no—it's not his fault, how could he know? But still, way too late.
"I wouldn't mind transferring either. But I want you more. Way more. We can buy a three-bedroom house. Has to be big."
"Anything."
“Anything?”
“Just whatever you want.”
"Adoption comes to mind a lot."
"I know."
"I’m sorry,” then, “It would've been fun."
-
She eventually wakes up—definitely not dead, just in a hospital room with Rossi sipping on a Starbucks in the corner. She can't help but groan. He flashes a grin at her. "Well, look who's alive." She grits her teeth and swings her legs off the bed, yanking the needle out of her arm. "Yeah, I wouldn't do that if I were you."
"I've got something on my mind," she says, dragging herself to her feet, but her legs aren't exactly cooperating. Her knee gives out, and she stumbles. Rossi stands up, watching with a wary eye but doesn't stop her. "How long have I been out?"
On her fourth step, someone walks past the door, and though she doesn't look up to see who it is, she hears who it is. "A week." Hotch's arm's already looping around her waist, guiding her back to bed. "Shouldn't let her do that. She's gonna rip her stitches."
Rossi makes sure the pillow is just right before her head hits it. "Didn't know she was gonna start walking like a newborn giraffe the second she opened her eyes."
A week? Unconscious for a whole week? She looks at Hotch. He's doing a quick check on her leg. "We got 'em," Rossi tells her on the terrorists. "Now you rest. That's your only job."
"It itches," she raises a hand toward her neck, but Hotch catches it, not even looking, squeezing her palm gently.
"Good thing. Means it's healing." His eyes find hers for a moment. Damn. She feels her face flush. Embarrassing. Not dead, but definitely awkward. Did she really say those things? Hopefully, she didn't really say all that—just some hallucination before kicking the bucket.
"How are you feeling?" he asks.
"Thirsty. Itchy. Where's everyone?"
"They just left, but they'll be back tomorrow," Hotch says, a grip still on her hand.
"Even Kate stopped by today," Rossi adds. "Pain in the ass, that one."
"Hotch doesn't think so. Since they liaised together in Scotland Yard. That must've been a hell of a time."
"Emily, you just woke up," Hotch mutters, and to her absolute shock, because he's probably losing his mind or something, he pats her cheek, nice and slow, almost so intimate she can see herself breaking, melting under it. "We really doing this here now?"
Rossi offers her a smile. "See? I told you, totally back to normal. Okay, I'll get you some water." He takes another sip of his coffee, eyes narrowing at Hotch. "And Emily, talk to this guy about getting that ear checked."
Being alone with Hotch is even worse.
She stares at her hands for a long moment before looking up at him. "What happened to your ear?"
He shrugs, hands moving to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Just the explosion, I guess. I'm not sure."
"It hurts?"
"Just gets bad when it's loud. Gonna get them checked. I'm just glad to see you."
"After a week? Thought you’d be sick of seeing me like this by now," she says, almost apologetic.
"Never. Never gonna get sick of your face."
Okay. Wow. Hold on. Thirteen-year-old butterflies just resurfaced.
Hotch glances down at her leg, then up to her... chin? Even her chin? My God.
"They stitched me back up nice and tight, sir. Don't worry about it."
"Oh, I'm worrying," he says, voice softer now. He looks so... different. Jeans, sweater, no suit. It's nice. Warm. Well, except for those dark circles under his eyes. Those are definitely not warm. "Still gonna be worried when we get you back to DC. And when they take those stitches out. Your heart stopped. Did you know that? I was holding your hand and your heart stopped."
Oh.
"I'm sorry. For making you watch me die."
He cups her face in two hands, leans in just enough to press his lips to hers, so brief. So nice. And proper, and just... good. Emily feels it stupid in her bones. "Don't apologize," he whispers against her mouth. "No apologies. You're here. You're not dead. Come on, say something else. Anything. Just, I don't know, you could go back to being jealous, you're pretty damn good at it. It suits you, honestly. I admit it, I find it entertaining. You think no one notices when you roll those beautiful eyes, or when you pout like that—so gorgeous, Emily."
"I," her mouth fished for words, trying to tie her heart back into place—one that wasn't nearly in her throat from how hard it was thumping. "I'm sorry to inform you, but there's no reason for me to be jealous right now. Were you doing that on purpose? For your own amusement?"
Just a joke, of course, but his face flickers with a hint of hesitation—just for a second—and oh. Oh no. Totally was, wasn't he? "Why would you think that?"
"You're unbelievable."
"See, now that's not fair. Kate had a huge part in this, and I had almost nothing to do with it. I just... well, I noticed what was happening, that's all. You were the one hammering the keyboard because a pretty woman flirted with me. So, now we're gonna breathe, and—"
Rossi strides in with a glass of water, and out of the corner of her eye, she catches it, just as Hotch presses another peck to her chapped lips. "Hydrate."
"We are definitely not done talking about this."
"I wouldn't expect it any differently."
"What'd I miss?" Rossi strolls in, passing the glass to Hotch. He tilts it to her lips while she burns a hole through him with her stare during every single sip.
"Oh, not much," Emily drawls, smirking. "But Hotch said Kate is pretty."