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The sound of her knock breaks the stillness. It’s firm, two taps, a far cry from the uneven fluttering in her chest that hasn’t stopped since the shots rang. Hours later she’s still thrumming, strung tight like a wire, the muscles under her skin unable to loosen, to unlock, even after a scalding shower and multiple assurances that he’s fine.
Her head doesn’t quieten. The fear is always louder.
Her heart lurches when the door whooshes open. Cool air skims the skin above her knees, and Emily is suddenly struck by how this looks—knocking at her boss’ door in the inky quiet of midnight, pajama shorts on her hips and desperation carved in the set of her jaw. Not a carnal kind of desperation, but desperation all the same, winding her body taut under thin cotton nighties.
To his credit, his gaze doesn’t dip down. His brows, though, do knit in familiar concern.
“Emily.” He says. She’s never Prentiss now, she notices. Never when she doesn’t strictly have to be. “Everything okay?”
Sure it is. Yeah, it’s okay. The unsub is in cuffs. They’re going home tomorrow. He crumpled down to the floor but he got up again. Everything is fine.
She hasn’t stopped trembling since.
“Yeah.” Emily swallows thickly. Everything’s just fine. Just let her body soak up some of the warmth that always flows from him, and she’ll be in tip top shape. Just let her feel him in the space that’s always between them.
Just—
Just let them stand on opposite thresholds, feet just shy of the edges.
Hotch eyes her with no small amount of tenderness. Just this, Emily thinks; the rise of his chest under his t-shirt, his pulse beating in the hollow of his neck. She doesn’t need the softness in his gaze, or in his voice as he murmurs, “It’s late.”
As he says it, he edges back. Cracks the door wider. Emily doesn’t think before she takes the invitation—and extends it further before she can feel it. Arms around his neck, his cheek next to hers, the sharp vortex of his inhale forming in her ear.
Idiot.
She jerks back, her mouth dry. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. God, I—”
“Shh.” His hand blazes heat through the nape of her neck. Thumb under her ear, fingertips slipping into her hair, he stops her from edging further back. Her resistance is weak. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”
Emily digs her palms into her eyes. She still sees him there, crumpling to the floor, two rips in his vest where the bullets lodged. Probably bruised, the EMT said about his ribs. You’ll need an x-ray.
“Are you?” She asks, swallowing against the tremble in her voice. Jesus, she needs to get it together.
Hotch strokes a line down the pearl at the base of her neck. “Yes.” He murmurs, though she can hear the strain if she focuses. “They’re just bruises, Emily.”
This time.
It’s all she can think about. They’re so, so fragile—each of them. No matter how much they lift and shoot and train, it’s all for naught. Their skin splits like butter under a hot knife, their bones crack easy as chalk.
It’s laughable. They’re paper thin, puppets on strings.
Even him.
She doesn’t feel the tears until he tugs her hands away from her eyes, two gentle fingers locked around each of her wrists. Her cheeks are cold with them, dampened and slick when Hotch swipes dry paths with his thumbs.
“Hey, hey.” He whispers, as carefully as he’s wiping her face. “Emily, don’t—don’t do this to yourself. I’m okay, I am. Please don’t…”
Emily’s chin jerks. She steps back, her shoulders hitting the wall. “I’m sorry.” She chokes out. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“Honey, please.”
It shudders through her, his voice desperate. Her chest tightens, vision blurring; she feels herself go limp, the tears burning hot and spilling down her cheeks, pooling right in his palms. He’s saying something, whispering pleas, reassurances. I’m sorry. Why’s he sorry?
There’s, at the core of her, a deep-seated relief waging war against the turmoil that brought her crawling to his door. Emily feels it like a warm, smoking gun pressed to her temple. Oh so gently grazing her skin, heated metal sizzling her flesh—still heavier than the shuddering kiss he whispers against her mouth.