Title: The Green-Eyed Monster
Author: hopskotch_hotch
Rating: FRAO/SC
Pairing: Hotch/Prentiss; het.
Summary: Raging jealousy was the most enlightening emotion that SSA Emily Prentiss had ever expressed. (Inspiration from ep., Lo-Fi
Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds or any of the CM characters. Unfortunately.
***
Out of damp and gloomy days, out of solitude, out of loveless words directed at us, conclusions grow up in us like fungus: one morning they are there, we know not how, and they gaze upon us, morose and gray...
- Friedrich Nietzsche
She was too good to be true; a sneaky medusa with snakes hissing about her. Perfect enunciation and pronunciation, perfect credentials, perfect wardrobe, right down to her perfectly coiffed blond locks. The way she walked just a little too sassily for the corridors of a police department ... Prentiss was sure it was designed to have males of the vicinity scuttling after her with their tongues hanging out, ready to do her bidding. She even had a PA of some sort ... who in law enforcement had a PA?
Hotch had said she had been a 'big deal' at Scotland Yard. Scotland frickin' yard. Sherlock Holmes had been a big shot at Scotland Yard, certainly not this diminutive thing who seemed barely out of nappies. Stop being silly Emily; Sherlock Holmes was a fictional character! Sure, you hung on your father's every word as he read and re-enacted the Hound of the Baskervilles with thrilling theatrics, but you finally realized at the grand old age of ten that you would never dine with Mr Holmes and Doc Watson on foggy Baker Street.
Derek, forthright Derek, had said on the plane that he heard somewhere that Joyner had a reputation for being difficult, stroppy. She recalls with a smile that he actually called her a 'pain in the ass'. He didn't mean anything about it; he just said what he was thinking. Hotch was almost nonchalant in his split second response,
"I didn't think so..."
Prentiss cut in a little too quickly, she thought in retrospect,
"You know her?"
"We liaised while she was at Scotland Yard", he shot back, matter-of-factly.
Liaised. What an awful word. It could hide a multitude of sins, and really, what exactly did it mean? Did they just work a case together? Did they relax in each other's company after the long, tiring days, do coffee, dinner, or worst of all, maybe a little horizontal jogging to release all that sexual tension that had been simmering on a slow burn?
And to cap it all, she was Hayley's identical twin, her one in six billion doppelganger. The resemblance was uncanny, and everyone was struck by it except for sickeningly oblivious profiler-in-chief, Aaron Hotchner.
When they first clapped eyes on the heavenly Kate Joyner, as she sashayed towards them in her busy New York base, JJ gave Prentiss a jolting dig in the ribs and together they gaped at the freakish resemblance. Even Reid, who didn't usually notice (or care about, to be more precise) these things, arched an eyebrow in surprise upon beholding her. They exchanged glances with Derek and Garcia, and for a while, there was an edge of the Twilight Zone about it all. Spooky.
Did he think about Kate sometimes when he was making love with Hayley on a rare lazy Sunday morning, or perhaps he broke protocol and became involved with Kate for a short spell, simply because he was homesick and she reminded him of his wife?
She was petite, blond, and feisty. Obviously the key qualities that pressed Hotch's buttons.
Prentiss felt sick on the plane. She rebuked herself sharply for making such blind assumptions about his character.
She felt sicker still as the day progressed, and she went through the motions of casework like a zombie. JJ, her compadre on trips away, would normally notice if she was off-color, but she had her own issues to deal with. When New Orleans Detective Will LaMontagne Jr had shown up, exhausted but buoyed with love, at the team's hotel, Prentiss's own troubling thoughts seemed like peanuts in comparison. Within a matter of minutes, they had discovered that JJ was pregnant and she and Will were planning a life together. It had been a pleasant, if not overwhelming, surprise.
Hotch did not take the news well. He was hurt that JJ had hidden her pregnancy from him, and with as much grace as possible, and after excusing himself politely from the scene, he stormed off to his hotel room for the night.
Prentiss was convinced she was going to hurl right there and then on the polished marble floor of the lobby, in front of her colleagues and Will. Without a word, she too fled the scene, but in the midst of the drama, nobody noticed.
She fiddled with the swipe card for her room door, her hands shaking violently as she tried to use the damn thing properly. She felt like yelling in despair as the light blinked red every time.
"Are you ok?"
She heard his deep quiet tone behind her, and whirled around.
"I, ah...stupid card won't work!" she mumbled dumbly, waving the offending piece of plastic in the air.
He stood silently for a moment, just contemplating her, hands in pockets, rocking back and forth ever so slightly on his heels.
He was thinking about something other than her room card.
She felt utterly foolish, waiting for him to respond.
'Say something Hotch, just speak!' a voice inside her head screamed, like needles piercing her skull.
He walked over to her, his tall frame almost overshadowing the spot where she stood glued to the ground. He held out his palm for the card and she proffered it wordlessly.
She could have sworn his hand lingered a little longer than necessary as it brushed against hers.
Since she gave no indication that she intended to move aside, he leaned over her slightly to open the door, moving against her in a way that was completely innocent, yet sent shivers through her entire being. He was so close she could smell his scent, a dizzying combination of light woody cologne and the day's fresh sweat, just reeking with pheromones. When he returned to his room, she knew he would shed his suit and hit the shower to freshen up before going to bed. Both states of Hotch ... pre and post shower ... were equally appealing to Prentiss at that moment.
She felt his warm, teasing breath lightly tickle her neck as he concentrated on his task.
This was almost unbearable. No, it was excruciating. Pure hell.
"Bingo!" she heard him say as she crash-landed back to earth with a resounding thud.
The light flashed green for go. Her door clicked open with a push.
"Thanks Hotch," she squeaked, flustered.
He mustered a weak smile. "No problem. Goodnight."
He hesitated briefly, and then turned to go on his way.
"Night!" she called after him, her voice dripping with disappointment.
He halted again and her heart thudded wildly against her ribcage.
"Remember, we're meeting downstairs at 7am," he reminded her, emphasizing the time aspect by drawing out the last part in an almost patronizing tone, as if he was speaking to a child.
That was just his way.
She nodded and watched him walking briskly away, upright and determined as always.
She squinted a little at the retreating figure.
Was it her imagination or were his shoulders stooped a little this evening? His confidence seemed to have ebbed in a way that was barely discernable, and yet it was there.
*****************
She was once again unsettled.
When she slammed the door behind her she made straight for the bed and crumpled onto it in a state of despair. Her stomach ached again in tight spasms. She knew that the pains weren't caused by something bad she had eaten, and it wasn't hormonal. Since she managed her emotions so cautiously, barely betraying anything of her distressed internal state to the outside world, the stress she felt finally manifested itself in physical anguish.
Her mother had always told her that she 'bottled up' her emotions, even since childhood. It was said in a critical way, which wasn't particularly helpful and just made it harder for her to let things go.
And so, it persisted into adulthood.
Usually, her stomach would growl slightly and she would feel small pangs, but tonight was different. Silly as it sounded when she thought about it, her heart was aching as well. It was like a craving that couldn't be satisfied, a yearning coupled with a heavy sorrow. Fizzing little neurochemicals playing tricks, more likely. The heart didn't feel emotion; it didn't literally ache with longing. But sometimes, it strained to keep beating when something was weighing heavily on the mind.
The feeling was only slaked for a brief while when he was in her presence, when he spoke to her. It calmed her in a way she never thought possible.
It was almost like coming home to something.
From a distance, she felt a sense of solidarity with him that transcended speech and interaction. It was an awakening of sorts, like a recognition of something timelessly familiar ... a long lost friend or loved one, an overwhelming feeling of déja vu, as though they had met before. They had in a way, a few years before she came to the BAU, when Hotch was a fledgling agent assigned to work security clearance for her ambassador mother. She had felt it then too having only observed him from afar.
And at times, she fleetingly thought that he experienced the same nagging sensation, edging its way into his consciousness every now and then.
She had read somewhere once that the ancient Celts believed that at the beginning of time, when the land was dark and nothing thrived; the seemingly barren ground was strewn with fertile clay from which living, breathing beings would emerge. At this dawn of all things, the clay of everyone mingled together; lay side by side. Now, when two people meet and feel that uncanny sense of having met before, it is simply an ancient recognition; as clay they lay together silently in the ground, and now, after years of wandering the earth searching unconsciously for their other half, they are reunited once again.
Soul mates, anam chairde.
The practical woman within her told her that this was sentimental gibberish; it was a nice, comforting bedside tale, but nothing more. Reality didn't work like that.
She should know all about reality and how it stung: here she was, hurtling into her late thirties, with no relationship, no children, nothing of much substance beyond her job. And while her job was incredibly important to her, and she knew full well that her life was not necessarily empty without someone to share it with, she often felt that there was more out there that she was failing to latch on to.
She couldn't remember the last time she did something exciting, something thrilling and unexpected.
And now this case, this place, and that snotty little Kate Joyner, were churning together to confuse and anger her, and she tried hard not to think about why.
She propped herself up on one arm and eyed the minibar in the corner lustfully. A vodka or two would be welcomingly numbing, so tempting right now.
Her dark hair fell about her shoulders, and she picked up a strand and inspected it almost disdainfully. It wasn't blond.
*****************
Prentiss knew that sleep would not come to her that night, no matter how hard she tried. Thinking about him, in the room just down the corridor, was enough to keep her restless and pacing the floor like a demented junkie on crack.
She didn't know whether she wanted to embrace him or land him a solid thump. Both, probably.
She loathed how one person, one man, could control her to this degree without even being aware of his power.
After an achingly slow hour had passed and her wristwatch read 11pm, the resolve and patience within her finally snapped. She couldn't bear the deafening silence punctuated by random sirens and traffic noises floating upwards from the street below. She was wired.
Without pausing to check her crumpled clothes, or even put on the heels she had thrown off earlier, she made for the door, stuffing that blasted swipe card into her pocket as she left.
She suddenly felt energized, on a mission to finally purge the persistent thoughts of him that plagued her.
While her little voice of reason panicked and told her "no, no, no, NO!!" as she hurtled down the hallway, she didn't pause for a second. The only possible thing that would have stopped her in her tracks - a raging fire or the impact of a natural disaster of some kind. Not even wild horses.
She reached his room door and lost courage temporarily. She consulted her hand upon which she had hastily scribbled his room number ... he always distributed a list of the team members' individual room numbers whenever they stayed together at a hotel. Nobody had ever had cause to use this list; it was just a formality, in case of emergencies. They all had each other's cell numbers anyhow, so it hardly seemed to matter. She was glad though, for Hotch's stickler mentality and his reams of lists for everything. She couldn't imagine calling him to say the things she wanted to say. What was it she wanted to say? What on earth?
She found herself knocking brazenly on the door. No response. She knocked again and after a few minutes heard shuffling and heavy steps as he trudged across the room. The door opened a few inches, not fully, and a tired looking Hotch stood facing her. When he realized who it was his weary expression turned instantly to one of concern.
"Prentiss, are you alright?" he asked before she could say anything.
She loved the way he spoke, so carefully, so precisely.
She drank in everything of him. He had clearly been sleeping, but had intended to have that shower too. His dark hair was ruffled and she noticed the red mark of a pillow seam where he must have lain at an awkward angle, on the side of his face. His once crisp shirt was now creased and unbuttoned all the way down to reveal a white t-shirt. The belt of his pants had been discarded and he stood awkwardly in his black socks. He was so exhausted he had probably just collapsed onto the bed and fallen asleep. She had woken him, and a feeling of guilt began to seep through her.
He leaned on the doorpost and waited for an explanation. Then he yawned, a full, impolite yawn, complete with growl. His eyelids felt like concrete weights.
"Ah, Hotch, I'm sorry to turn up here so late, but I need to talk to about something that won't wait until morning."
Her courage had remained.
He regarded her with surprise, his chestnut brown eyes flickering with interest.
"Okay, it seems we have a pressing issue here..."
"...Uh, you'd better come in then," he offered, gesturing for her to enter.
She stepped past him into the comforting semi-darkness of his base of the moment. Every hotel they ever stayed at was the base of the moment. They had to make themselves as comfortable as possible, delude themselves, otherwise the homesickness would hit hard, and insomnia would result.
He had the lamp on nightstand beside the bed switched on; a couple of watts more would have given him a headache. It cast a warm glow across the bedspread where the sheets were disturbed and case files and folders were spread out in an orderly manner of sorts. A legal pad and pen lay on top of the stack.
A pang of sadness hit her when her roving scan of the room stalled upon a simple silver photograph frame. A little boy, no more than two years of age, smiled out at her. He had Hotch's unmistakable dimples, and those haunting eyes. It must be Jack. Hotch had baby photos framed in his office, but this was a more recent portrait. She tried to have a closer look without appearing intrusive, and saw that the photograph had been crudely folded over to obscure part of it.
Hayley.
The poor guy. The poor, poor guy.
He carried around a photograph of his family to keep him grounded and sane, and now that family had shrunk to consist of one other person. He barely got to see that little person ... his entire world - once every weekend.
No wonder he was so sullen.
Hotch pulled out the chair next to the writing desk and motioned for her to sit. He perched awkwardly on the side of the bed.
She didn't sit, and so ended up looking down on him as she spoke, keeping a vast distance, a veritable ocean of space, between them.
Those courage stores of hers that yo-yoed and veered high and low with the passing moments were draining away.
She felt embarrassed and foolish again, as she did when she met him earlier on in the evening.
"What can I do for you, how can I help you?" he prompted, encouraging her to speak.
Prentiss stood uncomfortably, and then began her anguished pacing once again.
She bit her lower lip and spat out the most juvenile, petty thing she had uttered in all of her adult life,
"I don't like Kate Joyner, I don't trust her. I don't think you…the team...should be consulting with her so closely on this case."
There, said it. She couldn't believe she had said it. There and then, she lost ten decent respect points with Hotch. At least ten. Heck, who was counting?
Hotch stared at the wall behind her as he digested what she had said. A dark expression passed across his unflinching features.
He looked back at her, searching her face for she knew not what.
He looked plain incredulous.
"Emily," he began,
"I really, I just don't know where this has come from. I don't know what to say. Kate is one of the most competent agents I've worked with, and so are you, for the record. Everything is going as well as can be expected,"
He wiped his mouth before continuing,
"And you arrive at my room late at night, panic me because I think something is seriously wrong, then I discover that you are clearly bothered about something there's no cause to be concerned about!"
"I'm confused!" he added irritably, his voice rising in a way it never did. He was always the epitome of calm.
Continuing along with the theme of being supremely childish, Prentiss felt like a helpless six year old, as Hotch's bewildered glare burrowed through her.
"I, I...I just don't think..." she faltered, looking downward, not wanting to meet those eyes.
What an idiot you are Emily! This is possibly the dumbest thing you've done in an age!
She mentally berated herself for her foolishness, and wished the ground would open at her feet and swallow her as she felt her face burn, and knew that a deep crimson flush was creeping onto her cheeks.
In the brief rehearsal of this scene in her mind, she had been strong and firm, and Hotch had agreed with the valid points she made. He promised to rethink the depth of Kate Joyner's involvement in the case, and thanked her for looking out for the team. She would rise in his estimation, and, who knows?
Damn, who was she kidding? She now looked like a complete bunny boiler. Kate Joyner was good at her job ... great, even. There had been nothing but a sense of utmost professionalism since they had arrived in New York. No wonder Hotch was confused.
She was snatched from her brief spell of self-pitying wallowing by a noise, a noise coming from Hotch.
It sounded slightly strangled at first, like a choking cough or splutter.
When she looked up she saw him trying his damndest not to laugh, but laugh he did. He laughed in a way she had never seen before, a full belly laugh, a hearty chuckle that shook him.
He clutched the bed to stop himself from keeling backwards, and her dumfounded response only seemed to increase his mirth.
Ordinarily, Hotch rarely smiled. When he did smile, it was a rich treat, it affected Prentiss deeply.
Now, she was getting the distinct impression that he was laughing at her.
It was not a pleasant feeling.
He managed to quieten himself enough to see that she was hurt and embarrassed.
He composed himself and cleared his throat.
"I'm sorry," he sniffed, his eyes glinting in the lamp light. "I didn't mean to joke about it."
"Joke about what exactly?" she asked curtly
He paused and seemed uncomfortable again
"You're..."
"I'm what?"
"You're jealous."
She laughed too hard, too defensively.
"Jealous?" she spat scornfully.
"Yes."
"Jealous of what?"
"Of Kate. But more specifically, of what you perceive to be some sort of relationship beyond the professional, between Kate and I."
The tension in the room hung thick and heavy.
"That is ridiculous Hotch, and you know it," she pouted - exactly like a petulant child.
She glared at him, hating him for knowing. Hating him for reading her thoughts, even though she wore them on her sleeve when she came to him.
Not knowing what to do, she turned on her heel, needing to get as far away from him as possible.
"Emily" he spoke her name quietly, his tone softened.
"Screw you Hotch!" she called back over her shoulder.
He stood up and managed to catch up with her before she could flee.
Her hand gripped the heavy door handle, her knuckles white with tightness.
He put an arm across the frame, blocking her way.
If Hotch had no concept of personal space, he was certainly betraying this; he stood right in front of her, looking into her face. His chest was touching hers.
She felt dwarfed by him, realizing she wasn't wearing her power heels. Even when they were matched, both without shoes, he towered above her.
His eyes blazed, and she could actually feel his breathing quicken.
"Hotch, let me out," she pleaded in a small, faltering voice that didn't sound remotely convincing.
He didn't budge an inch.
She put her hand on his arm, to move it, and his free palm closed over hers.
She swallowed nervously, but was reassured by the feel of his grip; it wasn't angry, insistent, or vice-like as she had expected; it was firm, yet passionate. It was a silent pleading for her to stay.
He squeezed her hand affectionately, seeking some kind of affirmation of reciprocity.
She squeezed back.
There was a certain stillness in the atmosphere, a calm before the storm.
He reached out and gently tilted her chin up towards him, cradling it in the crook of his forefinger, caressing her cheek with his thumb all the while.
Then, Hotch kissed her.
He leaned over her and his lips hovered tantalizingly, agonizingly over hers for an anguishing few seconds.
She almost forgot to breathe.
He pressed his mouth to hers, feather-light at first, causing a tingling sensation that made her light-headed. He continued, slightly firmer, deepening the kiss. The taste of him, the sheer experience of making out with Hotch, was more satisfying than she could have imagined in her most vivid of dreams.
She arched into him, slinking an arm about his neck, gripping a handful of the short, almost coarse hair at its nape. She traced her fingers across his face as they kissed, relishing the feel of the day's stubble that peppered his jaw, knowing that the sexy little mole on his cheek was just there underneath her fingertips.
Losing herself completely in this heated clinch that got hotter by the nanosecond, she emitted a long, low moan and felt his lips curve to a broad smile in reaction.
*****************
When they finally broke loose from the embrace somewhat reluctantly ... to get some air if nothing else ... they both realized how dazed the other appeared.
The normally brazen Prentiss became shy and blushed in a way that just killed Hotch.
He entwined his arms firmly about her waist.
"Well, Agent Prentiss?" he inquired teasingly.
She caught a certain nervous quiver in his voice, a tremor of anticipation perhaps.
Planting both hands firmly on his chest, she played absently with his shirt buttons and grinned.
"Very nice Agent Hotchner," she purred.
Desperately not wanting to halt the seeming seamlessness of the night's events with a conversation about the whys and wherefores of what they were doing and about to do, he bent and placed a long, hungry kiss on her slender neck; a kiss that clearly said, 'I want you, and I want you now.' It quickly quelled the doubts that bubbled up within her.
Hotch felt liberated in a way he hadn't in such a long time: it felt like an eternity.
It seemed like making love to Emily was the easiest thing in the world to do. He had nervously imagined that jumping back into the saddle with someone other than Hayley would be physically and emotionally difficult. An unfamiliar body: foreign scents, fluids, noises. Waking in confusion and perhaps a lingering feeling of self-revulsion. With Emily, all of his fears - born from mere imaginings - subsided, and it was as though they had known each other like this a thousand times before. Maybe he was old-fashioned, maybe he was a rare breed, but sex with a stranger, without love or affection, was completely distasteful to him. It always had been.
His feelings for Emily fell into a defined place, where recently, little else but confusion had reigned.
A rare sense of peace and clarity engulfed him and his perpetually tensed muscles were finally able to relax for the first time in months.
This was not fairytale stuff with preparation and consideration in idyllic surroundings. It was just happening. In a dull, nondescript hotel room. Two people worn in spirit, dishevelled with the day's grime and work, but alive with lust and purpose.
They were swathed in darkness save for the faint light from bedside lamp and the city's nighttime glow creating a dull, almost foggy luminescence.
The otherwise routine weekday evening was not unfolding as either had anticipated.
The unanticipated...
Hotch still retained some sense of responsibility as the stark realization that he had no protection hit him.
"Emily, we don't have..." he began, becoming anxious again as he wondered in haste how he would manage to go off and leave her now to forage for something.
Morgan, surely Morgan would be able to help him out. How would he explain it? "Morgan, you're a young man-about-the-town type, I know you have a stash of condoms ... as your superior, I'm asking you to hand them over immediately. I'm working on a special assignment!"
He was actually going insane. The oxygen and blood supplies that fed his rational brain had already been redirected elsewhere.
She pressed a finger to his lips to silence him and with a smile she quickly replied, "I'm covered, so don’t worry about it, hot stuff'.
As she said the last part her smile widened and her eyes positively sparkled.
He grinned almost goofily. Nobody had ever called him 'hot stuff' before. He never felt on the same par as other men. He was fully aware that many of the women he encountered at work saw him as aloof and almost asexual. Not Emily Prentiss, apparently. Or perhaps that was a real turn on for her, the detached, aloof demeanour - who knew?
The gentle appearance of his dimples made her knees buckle. His desire for her at that split second hit the roof.
Even though verbal communication was blunted after that point, she suddenly sensed him shift gears and move into takeover mode. He was definitely assuming full control.
With a hint of clumsiness, clothing was dragged, hoisted and peeled off, and discarded haphazardly on the gray-carpeted floor. They fell onto the messy bed with a soft thud, and Hotch impatiently pushed over the folders that had been stacked there, tipping them over the side where the contents scattered. Prentiss smiled to herself as she observed his uncharacteristic disregard for neatness and order. He surged with a new energy, this Hotch divested of his impeccable dress and careful manners. His manners were anything but careful and mild-mannered when he finally got her between the sheets.
He tugged at her panties and wondered why velcro-fastened underwear wasn't a legal requirement for all adults over the age of consent. Picking up on his dogged, but fruitless efforts, tiredness clearly catching up on him, she helped him out by unhooking her bra and casting it out into the darkness.
He worked tormenting kisses and caresses across her stomach and upward, savoring the firm peach flesh of her breasts, his tongue encircling the dark areolas around her nipples, making her gasp loudly; she felt him, rigid and straining against her thigh, and her entreating whimpers urged him to proceed.
He found her damp, searing, and wet with longing, and he inched slowly inside her with care, filling her until they joined completely.
They beheld each other briefly, stripped now of titles and clothes, skin against skin, completely, utterly vulnerable. The realization of that intimacy was overpowering. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him appreciatively, wrapping both legs tightly around his waist, pushing him inside her further. The feeling was something she had been longing for, and even if it progressed to nothing beyond this, she could almost have been satisfied.
He felt dizzy and giddy, and had to focus hard not to let go completely. She reached her arms across the expanse of his shoulders, pulling him closer still. They kissed lingeringly and he began to move inside her, slowly, concentrated at first, then increasing the pace in a heated rhythm.
It became clear that this was not about technique or taking things slowly; that might come at a later time. This insane, frantic first encounter between them was about reaching a point of no return. It was about snatched pleasures and breaking through the hurdles of the preconceived notions they had about each other, to discover whether their frequent daytime fantasies bore any resemblance to cold reality.
She fought not to cry out, sighing deeply into Hotch's neck to muffle the sound. He felt her nails dig involuntarily into his back in reflex as she clung on to him, her breath quickening in short, sharp bursts.
She came quickly, in a blinding crescendo, euphoric cascades of exquisite pleasure pulsating through her.
Hotch drank in her reaction with a mixture of intense satisfaction and wonderment.
It half occurred to him in his effortful state, that Rossi was in the room next door, and the noise, as well as the thump of the bedpost that seemed to threaten to knock plaster off the wall, might carry. He was beyond caring. The mattress springs jangled as he pounded on, feeling flushed with his exertions.
It had been almost a year and he felt acutely out of practise. Not only had he split from Hayley months ago ... even in the last dying days of their crumbling marriage, she had banished him to sleep in the guest room as a kind of punishment when he came home from working on a case that spanned days, sometimes running into a weeks' duration. She distanced herself from him physically and it hurt like hell.
He kept his frustration under wraps but it showed itself in other ways. Grumpiness; being short with his co-workers. Detachment.
Now, he was hurtling rapidly towards deliverance and couldn't contain himself any longer.
Emily felt him shudder and he groaned as he released his pent-up load deep inside her, burying his forehead in the pillow she lay on.
The mesh of their bodies was over all too quickly and both felt an aching sense of exhaustion, satisfied and spent.
He rolled off her and they lay there, snatching back breath.
Hotch manfully fought sleep as a rush of hormones kicked in.
They lay on their backs for a while; side-by-side as they had as clay before time began, Prentiss thought to herself.
This is what it feels like.
*****************
They stared at the shadows on the ceiling, ghostly shapes created by the unnatural beams from passing car lights.
Cars that passed in the night.
Ships that passed in the night.
He didn't know what to say. He didn't even know if anything needed to be said. Glancing over at her as she was bathed in a serene afterglow, he felt like a geek who had scored beyond lucky with the prom queen.
She caught his glance and lazily reached over to hook her pinkie finger with his. It wasn't quite committing to holding hands. It was saying 'hey there' without smothering him with neediness. Prentiss didn't do needy. She did stroppy and cranky, and sometimes downright unreasonable, but never needy.
To her surprise, he responded by shifting onto his side to face her, and pulled her close again, spooning behind her with his arm tucked protectively around her.
She snuggled slightly more into his safe enfolding embrace.
He took the opportunity to explore her at leisure after the urgency of what had just passed; smelling her hair, breathing in her sweet fragrance; feeling the velvet skin of her exposed shoulder, and the fragile crevice between her neck and shoulder blade where her pulse beat steadily, her life force thudding gently just beneath the skin's surface.
Prentiss let her lashes flutter shut in contented bliss.
"Emily?" he asked her quietly.
"Hmmmm?" she murmured in response.
"Do you think I'm a bully?"
No response.
"Do you?"
"What?"
He struggled. "A bully ... do you think I bully people?"
"Hotch, of course not! You're sweet as pie and just as cute," she answered playfully, not taking him seriously.
He nipped her earlobe wickedly.
"Ow!!" she yelped
"Now do you think I'm a bully?"
"Definitely," she agreed, pushing his mouth away from her ear, swiping at him playfully,
"But seriously Hotch, why are you asking me this?"
A pause.
"JJ thinks I'm a bully."
Prentiss instantly recalled that awful scene ... Reid had been kidnapped and was being held hostage by Tobias Hankle. Reid sent the team cryptic messages to lead them to him, and Hotch, in attempting to figure it all out, had asked the team to list his worst qualities. Reid had called him a narcissist, which Hotch knew not to be true. JJ offered that he was a bully; Morgan had called him a drill sergeant. Prentiss herself had said that he trusted men more than he trusted women.
Obviously, JJ's take on his personality stung the most. He couldn't argue with Morgan and Prentiss; their observations were just right. But a bully? Bullies were cowards who made others feel small, feel bad about themselves. The thought had stayed with him, and haunted him many times since, in times of solitary reflection traveling home at night on the jet.
He didn't have the thick, impenetrable rhinoceros hide they all thought he did.
Prentiss chose her words carefully.
"You're not a bully...maybe a little domineering a times, but..." she shrugged "I kind of like that actually!"
She laughed as he absorbed her words.
"Final word on it Hotch ... you don't get to corner me in bed in your hotel room and ask me questions like that just because we had really good sex"
"Really good sex?" he intoned, chuckling softly.
"Yes. Really good sex," she repeated, reaching back and touching his face tenderly.
Oh Hotch, you big sensitive thing stuck in a surly, handsome man's besuited body.
She figured this was his first connection with someone in an age, and all the things that were bothering him and festering in his mind were rolling out now.
"So," he began, completely comfortable with her filling his arms,
"Tell me how a beautiful, smart witty woman like Emily Prentiss has managed to evade the throngs of admirers that must be pounding down her door?"
He was genuinely curious ... Emily was, as far as he was concerned, a hell of a catch.
He felt her tense slightly against him, like hackles rising. Sensitive subject.
"Most guys are scared by status, by power" she sighed. "If something becomes serious, the FBI thing makes them run far, far away."
She bit her lip.
"Plus," she added jokingly, trying to make light of her situation, "I'm a huge nerd, kind of a tomboy. I'm not really a submissive girly-girl. And some men are threatened by those things too."
"Nonsense!" he said, kissing her neck affectionately as if to neutralize the sting of her pain,
"I love brainy tomboys!"
"Hotch!" she swatted him again, convinced he was making fun of her.
"And you tell me, Mr Unit Chief, how someone could allow a wonderful guy like you to slip away?" she questioned tentatively.
"If I had someone like you in my life I'd consider myself pretty lucky. Very lucky," she told him, with such sincerity that he felt deeply saddened.
She tilted her head to meet his eyes. Big molten umber eyes filled with sorrow.
"I may be a good profiler Emily, but I made a lousy husband. I was never around."
"You couldn't help that, it's your job!" she soothed.
"I made choices. I chose the lifestyle I have over a secure 9-5 and a happy family. Now I have to live with my mistakes."
He was sombre and regretful.
"Hotch, you chose to do something you excel at, you chose not to just settle for something mundane. I don't mean to be disrespectful to Hayley, and I know she found it hard having you leave all the time, but a partner should try to support your efforts, to help you achieve your very best. It's who you are."
Prentiss had become slightly impassioned in defending him, and thought now that perhaps she was crossing a line. Don't be drawn in, this is tricky. It's raw, and he's still wounded.
He sighed heavily. "You're right. Hard to find the balance there though."
"You have a beautiful son Hotch."
"I do," he nodded wistfully, smiling.
"Parenting is the most challenging thing I've had to deal with in my life. I come face-to-face with miscreants; rapists, cold-blooded murderers, the dregs of society. None of this is as difficult as being a father. It's a breeze in comparison. Having a child is the ultimate responsibility. It's also my proudest achievement and the most rewarding thing I've ever done."
He was pouring his heart out to her, and she felt touched, privileged to have his confidence.
"Do you want children?" he asked curiously.
She bit down on her lip again.
"Yeah, but, you know, it's probably not going to happen, I have to face that."
Her eyes were stinging. Don't cry, don't get emotional about this.
"It'll happen," he assured her confidently, "you'll get there."
For some reason, after all her doubts, her furtive, whispered discussions with JJ about having a normal life, having kids ... she believed Hotch. There and then, she just took his word for it and felt peaceful. Reassured.
"Making babies is the easy part," he added sagely.
He pulled the sheets up to envelop them both, for there was an autumnal chill in the night air already.
Summer was gradually surrendering for another year, fading gracefully.
***
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