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Jessica gently shakes Jack, rousing him from his slumber where he lies, carefully curled up along his Dad’s side. Aaron smiles as his little boy looks up sleepily, an air of confusion on his face as he gazes around the hospital room.
“Come on Jack, we should get you home and into your own bed.”
“Daddy, when will you be home?” Jack’s voice, as always, sounds so much smaller when he is tired.
Hotch ruffles Jack’s hair lovingly “what do I always say?”
“You’ll be home as soon as you can.” Jack warily eyes the hospital gown “even now Dad?”
“Especially now Jack, I feel so much better already buddy, you’re my best medicine.”
Jack’s grin erupts on his face as he gets on his knees “maybe Aunt Jess could give you some Tylenol and a cookie, that always makes me feel better?”
Jess touches Jack’s back “maybe, come on Jack give Daddy a hug. Gently!” Jack heeds his Aunts warning just in time, catching himself before launching into Aaron with all the enthusiasm of an eight year old.
Hotch holds his son tightly, feeling his smooth cheek against his own stubble. Whispers of love and kisses snuck into his hairline.
Jess squeezes Aaron’s hand, urging him to rest up before taking Jack’s hand and leading him from the room.
Aaron listens to them leave, hearing Jack trying to negotiate a McDonald’s on the drive home.
Reaching for his phone he grimaces as the stitches in his side pull taught. Grunting in discomfort, he tries to catch his breath just as a nurse walks past his door. Glancing in, she gives him a quizzical look before diverting her course to come and check his chart.
“Ah, as suspected.” Crossing the room she opens one of the clinical drawers, pulling out a vial and clean needle. “For the pain.” She advises as she expertly inserts the needle into the IV.
“Thank you.” Hotch rests his head back onto the pillow, exhaustion suddenly overwhelming him.
“You’re welcome. Is there anything else I can get for you Agent?” She places her hand on his arm gently.
“No, I...” his eyelids feel heavy, his words trailing off.
The nurse smiles kindly, tucking in his blankets, Hotch isn’t sure if he actually thanks her before submitting to the darkness.
He wakes later, how much later, he isn’t sure, his sense of time warped. Opening his eyes he sees a sandwich and cup of jello resting on the tray in front of him.
Picking up the sandwich Hotch grimaces as he feels the hard, dry bread. Placing it back down he turns his attention, instead, to the cup of jello.
The sticky sweet substance coats his throat and he is reminded of birthdays, college parties full of jello shots and Jack’s wide, toothy grin.
Settling back into the pillows he once again let’s his heavy eyelids close.
It’s the morning light streaming through the window that wakes him. He wants to move but his body feels heavy like lead. The haze in the room tells him it’s early morning, the perky voices of nurses cause him to think it’s just after shift change. Reaching for his phone his suspicions are confirmed when the phone shows six am.
He scrolls through his messages, not paying much attention to most of them. Rossi has made it to Wichita and they are closing in on their unsub. A message from JJ tells him that Jack will be spending the night at her house with Will and Henry, as Jessica has a planned date. Jennifer sends her love, encourages him not to worry and focus instead on healing.
He opens his chat with Jessica, sees the photo she’s sent him of Jack giving a thumbs up whilst tucking into a happy meal. Smiling, he reads her updates, can hear her voice through the text. His brow furrows as Jessica apologises for having to sort out a sleepover for Jack, a planned theatre trip in the books for month. She needn’t have apologised, she’s entitled to her own life and he’s forever grateful of her love and care of both Jack and him.
His thoughts travel to Haley. To the vivid dreams of her with Foyet. Her smile. The memory of her renewed by his dream. Her loss is incomprehensible, even all these years later, but he knows she would be proud of Jack and grateful to her sister for stepping up. Aaron hopes and prays he is making her proud, keeping his word to her and her memory alive.
He feels a pang as he recalls the film they were watching in his dream. How she chastised him for not talking about her more. How she approved of Beth. How happy she was for him.
Hotch isn’t naive, he doesn’t actually believe he met Haley in the after life. He knows it was his subconscious working through his emotional trauma, as his body fought the physical trauma. Both sets of scars built up from years of repression, years of trying to be strong and move forward. He should know better than anyone that these things always have a way of catching up with you. You can only run for so long.
But still, whether or not it was real or just a dream, it provided him with comfort. Comfort he desperately needed. Whatever it was, it was reassuring to feel like he was doing the right thing.
Because truthfully, it didn’t always feel like he was. At times Aaron felt he was doing things because it was the right thing to do. Or because he felt he should. Or, in all honesty, because Dave forced him to.
He closes his eyes, resting the phone against his chest as his thoughts begin to race. Beth is lovely. Beth is smart. Beth is funny. She gets on great with Jack. Beth understands the job. She’s attractive, they definitely have a connection. And, yet.... What? He can’t put his finger on it. There’s no spark? Or maybe there is but it’s always her igniting it. Or perhaps said spark isn’t as vibrant due to their age. Neither were teenagers anymore, this wasn’t young love, both had a life from before each other to bring to the table. Still, if he thought about it too much, Hotch couldn’t help but think it just wasn’t right.
As if she can read his mind, his phone buzzes and Beth’s face is lit up on the screen. He answers with a hoarse “hello”.
“Oh my God, Aaron!” Beth’s voice is panicked, pitched with worry. “I’m sorry, I’ve been in exhibits all day and had my phone switched off. I just picked up the messages. Are you OK? ”
“I’m OK...”
“Penelope said you were stabbed?”
His eyes close briefly “No. I collapsed, due to my injuries from when I was stabbed years ago. But, I’m fine.”
“Jesus Aaron. I’m sorry.”
He opens his mouth to tell her about the dreams. About Haley coming to him, but he changes his mind. Regardless, Beth goes on “Do you need me to come back?”
He pauses, he can hear the hesitation in her voice “is that an option?”
“I mean,” she sighs, “I don’t know, I’d have to speak to Jonathan and Seline. They’d need to organise someone to come out and cover for me, but if you need me...?”
Her voice trails off and Hotch swallows, “No. No, Beth, don’t be ridiculous, I don’t need you to. I’m fine. Besides, I’m sure I’ll be kept in here for a few days, there’s no point for you to cancel your trip when there’s probably nothing you can do.”
“OK, if you’re sure?”
He’s not. There’s a selfish part of him that wants someone to comfort him and sit with him. But instead, he says, “of course.”
“Well, OK then.” Is that relief he hears in her voice? “I’ll be back in six days and then I promise, nurse Beth will be ready to report for duties.”
Hotch smiles into the phone, “OK then, sounds good to me.”
They say their goodbyes, Beth overcompensating and him reassuring her. As he puts his phone back down, and attempts to shuffle up the bed, a nurse strides into the room.
“Morning Agent Hotchner, let’s take a look at these dressings shall we?”
Hotch dozes for the rest of the day, his body weakened with exhaustion. Periodically his wounds are checked, the consultant standing at the end of the bed clicking her tongue as she surveys his chart.
His sleep is fitful, the nightmares brought back alongside the internal bleeding. When he wakes in the afternoon, his hands ache, and he realises that he’s balled them into fists in his dreams. Reliving the day he beat a man to death, his fists bruised and battered, almost as broken as his heart.
An orderly wakes him for supper this time, advising Hotch that the nurse asked him to make sure he ate. Dutifully he does, making a decent attempt at trying each food on the tray before pushing it away quietly. The next time he wakes the tray is gone, replaced with a cold cup of instant coffee which he doesn’t drink.
When he wakes the next time, it’s because someone is crying out. A hoarse shout, a cry for help, guttural and primitive. It takes him a minute, watching a nurse run to his side for him to realise the noise is coming from him.
She whispers soothing reassurances to him, carefully injecting into his IV. The nurse stays with him as he is pulled back into his sleep, hopeful that the sedative will help ward off the negative memories.
The next time he wakes it’s once again night. The hum of the hospital sounds different at night, softer, more monotonous. He can hear the hushed voices of staff, the loud snores of other patients, the gentle beeping of machines. Hotch’s body aches, the pain killers he has routinely been given, wearing off. But his mind is foggy, the sedative he was given earlier distorting his thought process.
That’s why he’s sure he is imagining the scent that lingers in the air. The clean smell of citrus spiced with amber, layered atop a sweet musk. The smell makes him dizzy, pulling him back to memories from years ago. He’s sure that this is nothing more than the sedative, just as his dreams of Haley had been from the bleeding. Still, it warms him, comforts him and he allows the aroma to cover him, dragging him back toward his sleep.
However before sleep engulfs him once more, his ears pick up another sound. A sound that he hasn’t heard before during his stay here. A sound that stands out amongst all the others. Hotch’s sedation makes it difficult for him to make sense of the noise. His brain is slower than usual, he struggles to put his finger on the sound. Pictures flash through his head, images of the noise scrolling past like a roller deck, but he struggles to grab one firmly. The noise is at the round table, on the jet, next to him in the car. The noise is beside him in a sheriffs station, across the table at dinner, in front of him at Rossi’s.
Nails.
The biting of to be precise. Tiny movements, the delicate gnash of teeth, the ripping of skin as its pulled away from the nail bed.
All at once the pictures fall into place. The sound and the scent amalgamating together. The memory of her, so vivid he can taste it. He wills his body to wake, focuses on opening his eyes.
Slowly the room comes into focus, lights dim, the sheet crisp white beneath his fingers.
“Hey, you...”
There she is, above him like some goddamn angel. How many times has he opened his eyes in a hospital bed to see her above him, concern written across her features.
She smiles at him now, the warmth spreading over him as he takes her in. Dark hair falling from behind her ear like a curtain, brown eyes so deep he could fall in and drown.
His throat is dry, sore and rough, still her name is sweet as liqueur on his lips “Emily.”
He tries to sit up, but his arms fail him. Stepping in, Emily grabs the bed remote, lifting him into an upright position. His brow creases with confusion.
“You’re in London.”
“Obviously not.” Her smirk, even now, is enough to make his stomach flip.
“Interpol?”
Emily turns and drags the hospital chair over so she can sit next to him. “I know it’s a foreign concept to you Hotch, but there is this little thing called holiday leave.”
He sighs, of course this was a planned trip. She hadn’t flown here for him. “Are you visiting your Mom?”
Emily scoffs, “not if I can help it.” Her smooth hand reaches across the bed to hold his “when I heard what happened, I was on the first flight over.”
Aaron’s head spins. She had come for him? This wasn’t a planned trip, this was emergency leave because she found out he was in surgery.
“You came?”
“You called.” She smiles, “well technically Dave did. But yeah, of course I came Hotch, I... I had to make sure you were OK.”
He stares at her, his mind spinning, questions semi forming, his brain too foggy to grasp one. Instead he clears his throat “I’m fine.”
“Oh yeah, completely fine, I remember you regularly collapsing in the conference room during a briefing.” Her tone is dry, but her dark eyes are cast with worry.
He fixes her with a glare and she nods, “to be fair, it is very Hotchner to excuse yourself before collapsing. Very on brand. “
He can’t help but smile, his lips curling up as his eyes soften. She chuckles at her own comment and as their eyes meet she squeezes his hand. The words travel between them without being spoken; her relief that he’s alive, his gratefulness that she’s here.
Emily nods, letting go of his hand she sits back and grabs her phone. “You should sleep.”
His own hand falters on the bed, cold in the absence of hers. “Will you...”
“I’m thinking we order pancakes for breakfast.” She looks up at him, knowing she’s answered his unfinished question. “What d’ya think?”
Resting his head back, Aaron closes his eyes, secure in the knowledge she’ll be there when he wakes “sounds good to me."
Emily watches him sleep, one hand in her mouth, her elbow resting on the knee that she’s brought underneath her, curled up on the chair.
Chewing on her nails, her thoughts trail back four years. Even without closing her eyes she can take herself back to that moment. They’d not long got back from the horrific case in Canada, the smell of pigs still on their clothes. But they’d been called back in almost immediately, only he hadn’t shown. They should’ve realised then that something was seriously wrong. Maybe she had, maybe that’s why she went to find him.
Emily recalls standing outside his apartment the confusion of hearing his phone ring inside, giving way to worry when she realised his door was open. She had cleared the home, ensuring no danger was present before taking in the smashed glass, the unmistakable bullet hole in the wall and the sickening pool of blood on the floor.
Days later she’d gone back to his apartment with Morgan. The latter of the view they should rip up the whole carpet and replace it. But Emily had insisted, on her hands and knees, she had spent 45 minutes blotting the stain away. By the end her fingers were numb from the cold, and itchy from the baking soda and vinegar. But it was gone, and once Derek had patched the wall you wouldn’t have known anything had even happened.
Yet it had, and the worst had still been to come. Looking over at Hotch now she thinks about internal wounds, the scars on the outside of the body, only an echo of the trauma within. Much like his apartment , Hotch had been patched, none of them aware of the scarring inside ready to rupture at any time.
She curls her hand against her own abdomen, her fingers tracing the puckering of her skin that told the story of vengeance, past lives and rebirth. She couldn’t imagine what Hotch was going through, the defeated foe, once more attacking from the grave.
His chest rises and falls, the white sheet shrouding him, his dark hair a stark contrast against the pillow. It’s so reminiscent of when she found him at St Sebastian’s, more wires were attached to him then, he was younger, but he still looked so small. It felt wrong to see him like this, the strong, sturdy captain of their ship, reduced to this vulnerable state.
When Rossi had called her, she’d been at the office, giving a dressing down to one of her own agents. At least luck had been on his side, the call from across the Atlantic meaning she’d dismissed him with only a minor scolding. She’d told her assistant to get her on the first flight before she’d even had the emergency leave authorised. Emily tells herself she’d have done the same for Morgan or Reid, anyone on the team, but she can’t fully convince herself.
Can’t quite forget the surge of hot white panic that coursed through her as she heard those words; ‘Aaron’s in surgery.’ Her mind had instantly flashed to their last conversation, their last hug, the last time she made him belly laugh. On the flight she’d scrolled back through their text chain, wondering, if she had known it might be their last, would she have said anything different.
Would she have told him she was sorry for leaving. That she realised now her life hadn’t felt the same since Paris because Lauren was gone. Not because Emily had. That she knew, it didn’t matter where in the world she was, she still had to rebuild herself, still had to find who Emily Prentiss was without the shadow of Lauren. That she understood it would have been easier to do that surrounded by the team, by her family, by him.
Would she have told him that she’d been hurt he’d let her go. The first time she understood, he sent her away to save her. To draw out the evil under the lure of her death. But the second time? Why hadn’t he asked her to stay? Why hadn’t he pushed back on her, even slightly.
Would she have told him that Beth was a mistake? That he deserved someone who made his eyes dance with mirth. That he deserved to be with someone who made him laugh out loud every day. Who might not be the best cook, but knew his Chinese order off by heart. Someone who he could sit in silence with or fall into deep discussions until 3am with. Someone who knew him, all of him, the edges, the scars, the sharp corners that were once soft and who met him equally as bruised but never broken. That he deserved to be with someone who felt like home.
Emily was brave, but maybe not that brave.
Aaron wakes to the unmistakable smell of coffee and sweet syrup. If he keeps his eyes closed he can almost pretend they were in some squad room, containers being pryed open on top of casefiles, hastily packed away.
He smirks slightly at the memory and her voice cuts through the quiet, “I know you’re awake Hotchner.”
Opening his eyes he sits up, shuffling slightly as she perches on the end of his bed, pulling the hospital table, laden with food, between them. Emily digs into her own breakfast, the French toast dripping on her chin. He surveys his own serving, aware that despite the time that has passed she remembers his order. Blueberry and banana pancakes, blueberries inside the batter, banana sliced on top, drizzled in syrup with a knob of butter melting over. His coffee, almost black, save for the dash of creamer. He’d been in a relationship with Beth for almost two years and she still got it wrong.
Emily is talking, lamenting that the English don’t do breakfast food in the same way. She’s animated, mouthfuls of syrup soaked bread no match for her stream of consciousness. But he’s barely listening, too grateful that she’s here, content to just be in her presence. He can’t ignore the peace she brings him, like an anchor in a storm, she’s a lighthouse providing him refuge.
“... It’s called black pudding, and yes whilst that’s normally a Garcia term for Morgan, this is just as gross. It’s a blood sausage, I believe it’s oats soaked in pigs blood. I’m not sure. And I get it, it’s less wasteful, uses the entirety of the animal and I’m sure there must be some health benefits, but, it’s not for me.” She wrinkles her nose, before reaching over and scooping some of his pancakes onto her own fork to try.
He allows her to talk, dutifully eating the food she had ordered. Sipping on his coffee, he tunes back in as her monologue turns onto Clyde Easter.
“... I mean you’ve met him, he’s arrogant and opinionated. Yes, he’s good at what he does, annoyingly so, but does he have to be so conceited? You’re not!” Their eyes meet, a brief pause passes between them before she breaks the gaze “Derek’s not, Rossi’s not, God I miss you guys, I miss...” two beats, a swallow, before she trails off.
“We miss you.” He picks up her sentence, watches as she blushes, the pink rising from her neck to her cheeks. “You always have a place here.”
Emily nods, chewing her food she allows the moment to pass, before saying; “anyway, what’s Alex Blake like? I’ve heard good things.”
The conversation moves onto the team. He answers her questions, trying to strike an honest balance of explaining how well Blake had settled into the team, without making her think she had been replaced. She asks how Spencer is doing, aware of Maeve, but having missed the fall out. She skirts the topic of dilaudid, but he picks up what isn’t said and assures her Reid didn’t fall off the wagon. In turn she tells him about the online chess games she shares with Reid, how he will send her articles to new papers he’s reading, how she will send him rare editions of his favourite books that she finds in the nooks and crannies of London bookshops.
They remember Strauss together, once a foe but a friend in the end. He tells her he knew she sent a spray of flowers for the funeral. She acknowledges the impressive woman Erin had been. Emily shakes her head as she ruminates on how she joined the team, the devious plotting from the older woman, leading her path. They discuss how Erin’s fears, though invalid in Hotch, were understandable in the patriarchal landscape of their roles. He asks her if she feels it over in Interpol and she nods that she does, the snapping of youth at her ankles, keeping her on her toes. But, she counters, she would never put another agent in the position she had been in, regardless of any power struggles or political agendas. They chuckle as they recall the case in Milwaukee as she gleefully remembers how good it felt to tell Strauss she had no authority over her. Hotch laughs, wondering to himself if anyone ever truly had authority over her.
She asks him about Jack, taking his phone to look at his most recent pictures of the boy. She marvels at how big he’s gotten, laughs at a picture of them together with Hotch’s face supporting a pen moustache. She listens intently to Aaron’s stories of Jack. His skill in soccer, his love of star wars, his insistence at needing a smart phone, his wins and his losses. She hears it all, a soft smile on her lips, eyes full of adoring love.
“He’s a good kid Hotch, you should be proud.”
“Thank you, I am.” He pauses a moment, watching her scroll through his phone. He knows he’s going to tell her before he even opens his mouth. Knows that if he was to tell anyone, it would be her.
“I saw Haley”.
Emily’s eyes flick up, looking at him from under surprised brows. “Oh?”
He shakes his head slightly “obviously I didn’t. But when I collapsed, or when I was in surgery, I dreamed of her.”
Inhaling deeply she appears to take it in, “and how was that?”
“Weird.” Emily allows the silence to sit between them, waiting for him to sort through his thoughts before sharing them “It was nice in a way, it felt good to see her and talk to her, but it also was sad, upsetting maybe?”
“It made you miss her?”
“I always do. But yes, even more so.”
“What was she doing in the dream?” Her voice is soft and gentle, no judgement in her tone, just open curiosity.
“We were in a movie theatre, watching a film of Jack’s life.” His smile at the memory falters “But Foyet was there too.”
“The reaper?” She sounds genuinely surprised, her brow creasing with confusion “what was he doing”
“Watching the movie with us.” He tilts his head as he recalls the memory “it was almost like he and Haley were old friends.”
Emily doesn’t speak for a moment before shrugging slightly “maybe it’s her way of letting you know she’s OK? That you don’t have to be angry anymore.”
“I’m not?”
“Of course you are. You’ve been angry for years Hotch.”
He bristles slightly “George Foyet is dead, what would be the point in anger?”
She gives him a sad smile “He’s not the one you’re angry with Hotch.”
He looks down at his lap, maybe for the first time, admitting the ugly truth she already knew. But she doesn’t allow him to dwell for too long “tell me about Haley, what did she say in this dream of yours?”
“She was talking about Jack, about how big he was. She said I need to talk about her more, which maybe I do. It’s on me to keep her memory alive for Jack.”
“You’re doing a great job Hotch. Haley would be proud of you.”
They both pause, thinking back on the final phone call between Haley and himself. He wonders if she would be proud, if he was doing enough for Jack. “She said that he’s not like me, that he needs to hear the words.”
Emily nods and purses her lips, “she’s not wrong, but he’s more Hotchner than you realise. Jack knows you love him, he knows Haley loves him. He knows that it was hers and your love that saved him. Jack is loved beyond measure by you, by Jess, by all of this team Hotch.” Taking his hand, she squeezes it softly “you have fulfilled your promise Hotch, he knows love and he knows happiness.”
“Thank you.” Hotch all but whispers, allowing his thumb to stroke the back of her hand. Emily looks down at their entwined hands for a moment, her dark lashes lay against her cheek. There’s a still in the room that neither can put their finger on. Like a heartbeat that has skipped it’s rhythm, a breath of air held too long.
The moment is interrupted as his phone flashes and beeps, she drops his hand as if it were burning and turns away when she sees Beth’s face on the front screen, “You should get that.”
“Beth, hi.” Hotch answers somewhat reluctantly, watching Emily’s back as she moves off the bed and heads to the window. He observes how her hands sneak around her body, hugging herself as she stares out at the sky. The sun cascades through the blinds, bouncing off her hair and he notes the strands of silver sparkling through the brown. He can’t help but think how beautiful she would look with a crown of silver, wonders if she will ever stop fighting off the ageing process. He wishes he could tell her she shouldn’t fight it, that it was a gift, and one she wears well. Hotch answers his girlfriend absentmindedly, as he imagines burying his face in Emily’s hair. Chastising himself mentally he asks Beth how her trip is going, immediately tuning out as she answers. How does Emily look more beautiful than the day he met her? Youth always looked good, and was without doubt, wasted on the young. But as Emily aged she appeared to only grow more and more attractive, perhaps it was that she was more confident in who she was, perhaps it was the shedding of trauma and lies, perhaps it was just that he knew her better and the deeper their connection became, the deeper her beauty to him.
Emily stares at the trees lining the parking lot, hearing Aaron’s voice as he talks to his partner. She’s sure Beth doesn’t notice the shadow tone underneath his polite demeanour. He talks a good talk, but a profiler could tell, she could tell. She can almost hear his eyes track her movement, she feels his gaze on her, like a laser burning her skin. Does he know that she might’ve stayed if he hadn’t been with Beth? That she might have fought harder to find herself in Virginia and in the team? Does he know that seeing Beth pull up at his triathlon had made her feel sick in a way she didn’t understand? She wonders if he knows that bringing Beth to JJ’s wedding was one of her deciding factors to leave. That she knew she couldn’t move on here, couldn’t find herself and the life she wanted here. Cause truthfully, if she was honest with herself, Emily knows that she held back from him cause of Lauren. That she never truly felt able to take that step into something else, because she could never be whole with him. She would always have that secret in her, like a stain on crisp linen. And whilst that was fine with some men, she knows he would see through her. That in an intimate environment he would see the red flags, she would be unable to hide the memories, so she ignored the pull she felt. So when she came back from Paris, when she returned from the dead, there had been a part of her that thought maybe now she didn’t have to ignore it. The dragon from her past was slain, she didn’t have to hold back to protect him or Jack. Everything was out in the open, Doyle, Lauren, her work before the B.A.U., all of it, and he didn’t flinch. She had thought, naively, that maybe this was their time.
But it wasn’t.
He found Beth.
She moved away.
But as she hears him talk to Beth on the phone she recognises the clipped responses, the disinterest peaking through the politeness. Emily can hear Beth talking away down the phone, part of her wants to laugh as she hears Hotch’s short responses. But there’s a larger part of her that is overwhelmed with sadness. A grief sitting in the pit of her chest like a weight. A grief for what could have been but likely never will.
When he hangs up she’s slow to turn to face him. Emily exhales slowly her lips pursed as she breathes out, pushing the thoughts from her mind.
Hotch gives her a look, and she recalls standing in Dave’s home as Aaron advised that was her tell. Her heart pangs from the memory, from how well he knows her.
Maybe she shouldn’t have come. Maybe this was a mistake and would only hurt her more. But she wouldn’t have had it any other way. She needed to see him in the flesh, needed to reassure herself that he was OK.
“You ok?” his voice is soft, the gravel edge to it masking his own emotion.
She nods gently, walking to the edge of his bed she rests her hands on his bed rail. “Are you happy?”
The question hangs in the air, like a cloud threatening to burst. They observe one another, brown eyes connect to brown as a million things are thought, but never said. But even though the words aren’t spoken, the understanding is still there. The moment is too long but neither want to break the connection. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, he swallows; “I think so.”
I know I’d be happier with you. Stay. Don’t go back to London. Come back to us. Come back to me.
The words are on the tip of his tongue, but he bites them back, pushing down the feelings he buried for so long.
“Good.” Emily nods decisively.
I wish it was me who made you happy. I miss you. I miss the team. I miss Jack. Ask me to stay.
Her thoughts remain in her mind, her face impassive.
Moving over to her bag she begins to put her things away, ensuring all her belongings are packed up. He watches her, the desire to ask her to stay overwhelming. When she turns back to him, her face betrays nothing of her emotion, her demeanour calm and collected.
“I should go.”
“Yes.” His own face is steely, his jaw tight with bridled tension.
“OK then.” Hoisting her bag onto her shoulder she goes as if to move to the door before turning around and crossing the room to him. Leaning down she places the gentlest of kisses against his cheek, almost grazing his lips with her own. His hand reaches up around her, enveloping her in an embrace, his large hand splayed across her back, fingers trailing the soft strands of her hair.
He breathes her in, inhaling her scent, trying to imprint it to memory to last him until the next time he sees her. His eyes close as he holds the moment, wishing he could remain in this place forever.
“I’m glad you’re OK Aaron.” She breathes against his ear, the words so quiet they are almost lost within the hum of the hospital.
“Thank you for coming Em.” Hotch whispers against her neck, noting the goose flesh that erupts along her skin.
She pulls herself upright into a standing position and walks to the door. Already her absence leaves him cool, the warmth ebbing away like the evening sun in late summer. Resting her hand against the doorframe she turns to look at him with a soft smile “wild horses Hotch, just, wild horses.”
Fin.