Three weeks.
To most people, three weeks probably didn’t seem like that long. To Emily Prentiss it seemed like an eternity. It had been three weeks since their case had ended. Three weeks since he’d accompanied her to a gym by their hotel and watched her practice a bar routine. It had been three weeks since he’d yanked her off of that beam and made her see some pretty serious stars.
Then it went cold turkey.
If they’d talked about it, discussed how wrong it was… if he’d given her something she probably wouldn’t be in so much agony. She probably wouldn’t jump every time he brushed against her shoulder “ though he’d started doing it long before That Night “ or feel a blush rising in her cheeks every time their eyes met. She had no idea how he was feeling. He’d been sending her mixed signals, mixing the touching with the lack of anything else.
So she sat by herself looking at the equipment around her. It wasn’t by far the first night she’d sat like that. At work, she had something to occupy herself. She had paperwork, she had peers. She could always count on Garcia for some good girl-time gossip and JJ was always more than willing to share the newest tidbit about her relationship with Will, even if it inadvertently tore Emily’s heart a little bit each time.
JJ had found love in a detective. Emily couldn’t keep her mind off of her unattainable boss. How cruel could life get?
She’d known that leaving that gym was a bad idea. She’d known that by leaving they were going to cut new wounds without really realizing it. She knew that going back to their cold and empty hotel beds was going to put up a wall between them, but what else could she do? The team was there, on all sides of them, and the last thing she wanted was for them to know she was screwing her boss.
It had thrown her off completely. She couldn’t look at the beam, couldn’t think about the floor. They brought up memories that were starting to feel downright painful. She hadn’t done a gymnastic routine in three weeks, the longest she’d ever gone. She’d managed a few handsprings, a few standing tucks, just to keep herself limber, but she hadn’t run a full routine since That Night. She wasn’t sure what was killing her more, that he’d ruined the only place she felt completely comfortable or that she hadn’t gotten a chance to experience the full connection.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, finding new resolve. She’d do a routine today, even if she burst into tears half way through. So she went for her bag, looking for whatever jumped out at her first. And what did was what would be the worst for her.
An impulse purchase almost six months ago had been a new pair of bar grips. She didn’t do the uneven bars. She wasn’t sure if she still could. It put way too much strain on an injured shoulder. She grabbed them out of her bag and headed over to the apparatus, strapping them on in the process. Maybe the pain in her body would drown out the emotions in her. It had worked before. It had been what the floor and the beam were for. But she didn’t feel like they were hers anymore, and until she could face them without thinking of him she wasn’t going to face them at all.
She surprised herself as she chalked up her hands and started swinging. It came back to her almost naturally, as if she’d been doing it every day of her life. She’d been good at the bars, gotten too overconfident one day and blown her shoulder. The release skills started simple, her routine completely improvised as she went along. It wasn’t perfect, her gymnastics rarely were these days, but it was something. She worked her way through the routine anyway, even to the dismount. When she fell on her butt because she hadn’t landed properly, she stayed there, falling back with her eyes closed.
The feeling of someone sitting beside her came first. Then the smell. Him.
“I thought you didn’t do the bars.”
Inane conversation was the last thing she needed at the moment, but diplomacy and training kicked in faster than angry, cynical sarcasm could. “I don’t usually.”
“Why did you?”
She didn’t hear concern in his voice. She couldn’t have. If he was concerned, he would have addressed things between them long ago. She pushed herself up with a sigh, not even glancing at him, taking some of her anger out on the straps of the bar grips. “I wanted something different.”
His hand was cold and wet when he touched her shoulder, and she couldn’t stop the streak of worry. She faced him, in his drenched-suit glory.
“Is it raining?”
“Cats and dogs.”
She’d never understood that particular phrase. “But you’re here.” Confusion would be an understatement in trying to describe how she was feeling.
Hotch, on the other hand, felt totally out of control. He’d been stupid, that much he knew. He should have talked to her right away, should have used the opportunity in the car to explain what was going on, why he’d done what he did. On the other hand, he’d been silent. He hadn’t touched her since that night, too afraid of that all-consuming lust-attraction-emotion-whatever¬ taking over again to allow himself that. Instead, they’d become subconscious. A brush here, a tap there, eye contact that never held. She turned away every time.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” he admitted softly. His hand was still on her shoulder, but he didn’t want to move it for fear of scaring her and losing her. For if there was one thing he’d realized in the past three weeks it was that Emily Prentiss was one of those once-in-a-lifetime women. She was a woman who understood what he did and who had been willing to turn down her own job and play politics so long as he got to continue doing what he loved. She wouldn’t pass dirt on him. He’d cajoled her back into the unit.
The statement took her by surprise. “Why not?”
“This is the first time I’ve seen you in here in three weeks.”
It took Emily a moment to absorb those words. “You’ve been coming here every day?”
When she said it like that, it sounded borderline-obsessive. “I needed to talk to you on neutral ground.”
“And you really think this constitutes neutral ground?” she bit out as she finally moved away from his touch to put her grips away.
She wasn’t going to make it easy for him and Hotch could understand that. He wasn’t sure he deserved easy. “Do you have a better idea?”
She didn’t, not that it mattered. She took a deep breath, willing herself to let him speak. “I’ve been here every day,” she said finally. “This is the first day I could bring myself to do a routine.”
She almost slapped herself when the words came out of her mouth and she caught the look on his face. The last thing she’d intended was to say that. It was had enough to realize it for herself without having to handle someone else. And what on earth was wrong with her? Every time he got close, she spilled a secret, let him that little bit further into who she was as a person. Hadn’t he already proven that was a mistake?
“I’m sorry.”
The words made her arch a wary eyebrow. “Okay.”
“It’s not okay.”
She knew what was coming next. She’d expected it. This was where the Bureau came in, where he spoke about their jobs, about their reputations about how That Night had been a massive mistake and loss of control on his part. Emily tried to fortify herself for the blow.
“I’m sorry for not talking to you.”
Not quite. “It’s okay,” she said flippantly. “Water under the bridge.”
“Obviously not.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He ran a hand through his wet hair. “If it was water under the bridge you’d be able to do the gymnastics you love.”
It terrified her that he’d pegged her problem so well and so quickly. In fact, it hurt. Still, she tried to play it down, shrugging as she turned to make a show of packing up her things.
Hotch wouldn’t take it, he spun her around, earnest eyes meeting hers. “I owe you more than I gave you, Emily.”
Her first name caught her too off guard to move away from him. “You don’t owe me anything,” she managed to whisper. The last time he’d said her name they’d been in a completely different situation, completely different emotions racing through them.
He growled, actually growled, low in his throat. “I want you, Emily. I haven’t exactly made a secret of that.”
That much was true, but he hadn’t exactly done a great job of showing it either. She’d felt tossed aside for three weeks, what was she supposed to do with that? Still, that intensity that had brought her to a peak three weeks prior was shining in his eyes again. Yet there was also turmoil, confusion. It took Emily by surprise. The Aaron Hotchner she knew was rarely, if ever, confused.
“I can’t get you out of my head,” he said, voice just above a whisper, cracking as he spoke. “I see you every day at work and all I can think of is what happened and what didn’t.”
His emphasis on ‘didn’t’ had her shivering under his hands. What hadn’t happened between them had played over and over again in her head, in her dreams, in her fantasies. Her mind was reeling, trying to absorb his touch, his words. If there was one person she would ever consider as someone who could compartmentalize better than she could it would be him. She took a deep breath, trying to strengthen her nerves. “What do you want?”
He was moving closer without realizing it, backing her against the wall. Her body was warm, the skin on her shoulder just as soft as it had been that night and in his dreams every night since. But he couldn’t let himself lose control, not yet, not here. He’d done enough damage to her here. The words came out of his mouth without the conscious permission of his brain.
“I want to say screw the Bureau,” he whispered, pressing her body between his and the wall so he could whisper hotly in her ear. “I want to take you home and make you forget your own name. I want to roll you underneath me, feel you around me. I want you.”
It had required almost too much control on her part to not jump him right there. She hoped it didn’t show in her eyes. “We can’t.”
“Screw the Bureau, Em,” he said, managing to sound calm, almost logical. “There’s nothing in the Bureau that could mean more than this.”
She arched a delicate eyebrow. “Sex is worth more than the BAU? I have a hard time believing that.”
Hotch growled again, pushing her back into the wall with his frustration. “Is that what this is?”
“Isn’t it?”
He never realized how frustrating it was to get a question in answer to a question until she did it. “If it was only about sex I wouldn’t have walked away the first time.”
She had to give him that. They’d both walked away from each other and known things were different. “Then what is it about?”
He sighed. “A chance to connect. To have someone there to share the hell with.”
When he presented it like that it most certainly sounded attractive. “And the Bureau?”
“Screw the Bureau,” he said again, unable to resist any longer. His mouth met hers roughly, thrilling when she responded. He pulled away and came back, gentler this time, encouraging her response. He felt her fist his hands in the open coat at his waist. Eventually, he pulled away from her mouth, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead and temple before looking at her. Her eyes were glazed, her lips swollen. God, he wanted her.
“Hotch…” She wanted to stay right where she was, cradled in his arms. But if he didn’t get out of those clothes soon he’d probably catch a cold and she’d be right there with him with the little she wore now. She took a deep breath, meeting his eyes. “Let’s get out of here. This isn’t the place to… to deal with all of this.”
She was right. “Your place or mine?” He thrilled when her eyes widened. Did she really think she was going to get away with just a kiss? The kiss told him she wanted him to and Aaron Hotchner was an opportunist at heart. He wasn’t about to let her take time to reconsider or come up with a better argument.
“Yours,” she said. “You need to get out of your wet clothes.”
He wasn’t sure he liked the idea that she could just get up and leave, but she made a good point. He was starting to get cold.