funny how it disappears the second you give in - leavemurph (2024)

The door barely cracks open before—whoa, hold up—nope, he knows exactly who this is. Big fat no for tonight. He slams it shut like it's a reflex—fast, sharp, and thoroughly annoyed. But he's not quick enough. Hands—slim, nimble—catch the frame, locking it in place before he can make his escape. That citrus scent floods the air between them, wedging itself right at the base of his skull.

Really, what a joy: a migraine stirring to life, coiling up behind his eyes. He clenches the doorknob, the only thing keeping him anchored to stupid ground.

"Look," he mutters, five steps past exhausted and spiraling straight into regret. "You're the last person I want to see tonight."

"And here I thought a friendly word wouldn't brighten my day,” her voice is a whisper, soft enough to almost get lost beneath the faint chirp of that cricket he's been meaning to deal with for a month now. She's half-draped in the doorway, clinging to the edge like she might slip through the gap if he even thinks about letting her. Her eyes—big, dark, and doing that whole wounded-animal thing—framed by those lovely little bags that somehow make her look even more pitiful.

It's got that weird, disarming glow, the kind that makes it really hard not to feel like an ass for being cold to this delicate, tragic creature. What a con artist. Seriously—what a little liar, this woman is.

The look is peak Emily—infuriatingly complex. Somehow asking for forgiveness while also making it clear he should be the one apologizing. Jesus Christ, he really should've checked the damn peephole.

"I came here to apologize."

"You shouldn't have come," he snaps, and well—he's definitely repeating himself, the words coming out meaner than they probably should. He knows that. But he can't help it. "And you did apologize. Before. Everyone got a public, formal apology. Here's the thing—I don't buy it. To me, you were dead for two years. Do you have any idea how long two years is? Too damn long, Emily."

Her gaze wavers, dropping to the threshold where his arm still blocks her way like a big, flashing warning sign. "I know." She bites down on her lip. Years of working with Emily—years—had taught him about her nearly unshakeable emotional stability, how she could stand her ground against all sorts of demons. But this is the first time he's seeing her teetering on the brink of a sob.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

He shifts slightly, caught in this ridiculous internal tug-of-war—push her away or just give in already. With a bit of a reluctant sigh, he loosens his grip, pulling the door open wider.

"Sorry," she murmurs as she steps inside, brushing past him with this hesitant air that feels all wrong. Then, well, she pivots on her shoes and—there, already very much wrapped around him, arms thrown over his shoulders. It's too damn real—dead one minute, alive the next, and now she's pressing her full weight against him, her warmth seeping into his shirt. It's her forcing a hug that he's not ready for because his arms are firmly at his sides, locked up like a vault. And yet, the familiar scent of her shampoo floods the resentment into ball of harsh meaninglessness. His stomach flips, a dense knot of cold air forming as tears threaten to slip down his cheeks, but no—he's not crying. He's cried enough for two lifetimes.

He voices the thought that disbelief had been keeping at bay. “You’ve been drinking.”

"I was trying to find my courage, I suppose. I know you don't like me right now." Her throat bobs with a hard swallow, hands fisting at her sides. The second his other hand finds its way to her back, holding her steady, she leans in closer. "You don't have to leave," she whispers, her voice curling around his ear, sending a shiver down his spine—fifteen years worth of goosebumps right there. "I mean, BAU. I can find another thing. It's your team before it's mine."

As if that would actually fix anything.

"I don't think discussing resignation is a good idea right now."

"You're right. My head hurts", her voice cracks just a little, pooled with that undeniable, alcohol-soaked desperation. "On a scale of one to ten, how likely are you to let me crash on your couch?"

-

A bundle of blankets draped over one arm. Hotch glances at her, brow furrowing. "You look like you need these." He lays the blankets across the couch, smoothing them out before turning his attention to her shoes.

"Thanks," she wiggles feet, giggling softly.

Hotch kneels down, grabbing her ankle gently. "Let's get these off you, shall we?" He pulls off one shoe, and she watches him with a bemused expression, half-lidded eyes sparkling.

"Thank you, Hotch. You always know what I need," she says, her tone a little silly, a little slurred.

He nods, wary of trusting himself to use sincere, kind words. As she shifts to settle in, she reaches out and grabs his shirt in a closed fist, tugging him down. He finds himself nearly toppling forward, landing next to her on the couch, his chest cramping slightly.

"I missed you the most, you know," she whispers.

"Been saying that to everyone who had to mourn you?" he replies, the lump in his throat fattening as his lips brush against her forehead.

-

Curiosity doing what it does best, he swings his legs off the side of the couch, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He pulls the curtain back just enough to get a peek, and—yep—there's Emily's car rolling off, tires crunching on gravel.

"Morning," Beth chirps, gliding in from the kitchen with a smile way too big for a Tuesday. He manages a grin back, because what else is he gonna do, and leans into the kiss she plants on his cheek.

"Got here early. Skipped yoga," she announces, bright as sunshine served in a matcha-flavored cupcakes. He's not feeling well. Or decent. Not at all. "You said your friend was here, so I figured I'd bring us up some breakfast. But she left in a hurry."

Hotch's arm automatically slips around her waist. He narrows his eyes, catching the last glimpse of Emily's car disappearing down the street like it's got better things to do. "Did you happen to mention coffee at any point?" He asks, jokes even, trying to sound chill and not like he's spiraling into a whole emotional subplot.

"Said she was late."

-

Two days later, a pattern is born—Hotch still hasn't set foot in the office, Jack's glued to the TV with the babysitter, and he's supposed to meet Beth for dinner. But just as he grabs his coat, Emily shows up, fist mid-air, ready to knock.

The little smile on her face is an attempt of a white flag, dipped in whiskey. He sighs, and just like that, dinner's a no-go. This time, he lets her crash in his bed.

"Your girlfriend's not gonna love this," she mumbles, swaying a little as he slips her jacket off.

"Jack's claimed the couch and the TV," he mutters, tugging at her sleeves. "Emily, you can't keep doing this."

"I need to tell you something."

He kneels down, working the laces on her boots. "Unless it's about work, don't. Please."

"I have to get this out. It's been six years. Don't you want to know what I've been trying to tell you for six years?"

"You're not that hard of a read, Emily," he says, the words slipping out and twisting his stomach in knots. "And that doesn't make things any easier."

She takes the water he hands her, sips, and returns it with a small, grateful nod. "You guys are leaving town."

Her gaze drifts toward the boxes stacked against the wall—boxes that have been sitting there ever since their moving plans hit pause. Hotch follows her line of sight, then exhales, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. "Your girlfriend is joining?"

"We've talked about it," he admits. "Beth's still deciding. You want me to turn off the lights?"

"Please," she whispers, folding herself under the covers.

-

The third time happens around just two weeks later, and Emily's dress is stained with wine. Hotch has no idea how to explain to Beth why he can't send Emily home, so she just grabs the car keys and bolts without a word. He lets out a sigh as Emily kicks off her shoes on the hardwood floor, and when she leans in close, touching her cheek to his shoulder, he places a hand on the small of her back.

The cold tip of her nose brushes against his neck. "Tell me how to fix this," she says, and he can tell she's been crying. It's infuriating how his body reacts to her distress, like some kind of programmed response. He gently brushes her hair out of her face, his thumb gliding over the middle of her back.

"They're my family. And they hate me. I was just trying to protect them—protect myself. Now not even mother wants to talk to me."

Guilt is that old friend who always brings along a bunch of annoying relatives to the party—and the way he's been treating Emily has turned into a torture device in his head. Seriously, where did he get the idea that Emily was a bad person? He's been so focused on protecting his own peace that he's completely forgotten how much it's cost hers.

He takes her to bed, stacking extra pillows for her and handing her a pair of his pajamas. "I know I haven't been acting like it, but knowing you're alive is the only thing that's pulled me out of bed lately."

"But you're pissed," she replies.

"Of course I am. I've had to grieve two women I loved. You should have told me. You should have found a way to tell me. I told JJ I would have—Jesus, Emily, I was terrified. I would've told you, I would've done more, I knew I had to marry you if I got you back that day, if things had been different. Just seeing your empty desk made me sick every day for over a month. I had to enroll in all kinds of programs to get out of there, but I couldn't simply leave. It felt like I was severing the last connection I had to you."

"And you leave the second I get back." She spits it out, unbuttoning her pants like he's not even in the room. Hotch shifts his gaze to the wall anyway.

"Did Beth come along before or after you stopped having feelings for—?"

"Don't you dare," Hotch warns, arms crossed as he turns his back completely. Can't even look at her. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

There's a silence that stretches forever—or maybe just five minutes—until she finally says, "You're right. Sorry. You can look now."

He doesn't move, just rests his forehead against the wall, exhaling through the scratchiness in his throat. "You're being selfish."

"I—" She stops, unfinished. The sound of shifting bed sheets makes him glance up. She's standing now, his shirt slipping off her shoulder. "You know what? Relax. I'll get out of your way."

Of all the things he could've said—because, well, isn't that exactly what he wants?—he stops her with, "You can't even drive."

"I like long walks. Really long ones. How do you think I got here?"

"I don't know. Maybe just pure determination to drive me insane," he mutters, striding over, closing the door, locking it, and sliding the key into his pocket. "Alright. Straight to bed. Tomorrow, you can leave. Tomorrow, you can be as angry as you want. But tonight? You're lying down, and you're sleeping."

"Some might call this kidnapping," she says, lingering with a frown before she climbs back into bed, holding eye contact way longer than necessary.

"Good night," he says, ignoring the way his heart is doing backflips just from staring into her eyes as he flips off the light.

-

Emily doesn't Houdini her way out before he wakes up this time. No stealthy ninja exit at 6 AM—nope, she crashes right through her alarm. So, Hotch sends JJ a quick text. "She's running late," he says, probably underselling it. By nine or ten, he's already done the whole dad thing, dropped Jack off, had time to field two break-up texts from Beth, and clock in three miles outside just to stay sane. And still? Emily? Nope. Sleeping like a cat in a sunbeam.

It's not until eleven that she drags herself out of the abyss. By this point, Hotch has given up on any kind of respectable breakfast and is halfway through a jar of peanut butter straight off the spoon, because, why not? She shuffles into the kitchen looking like she rolled down a hill instead of out of bed—hair all wavy, collarbone poking out like she accidentally left half her appetite in the city she was playing dead. She gives herself one of those lazy, half-scratched eye rubs.

"I'm criminally late," she complaints.

Hotch doesn't even glance up from his peanut butter conquest. "They might forgive you."

"Not me," she fires back, moving to face him on the counter, eyeballing his jar. "I'm on probation. One screw-up, and they'll cut me loose." She pauses, tilting her head at the spoon like it might be negotiable. "If you give me some of that, I'll be so happy."

"Alright, listen up. We need to talk," Hotch starts, nudging the spoon halfway to her mouth.

She pulls a face, but still opens up. "Historically speaking, this kind of opening rarely leads to anything good," she mutters before taking the bite, chewing it down.

"Is this because I was kind of a bitch yesterday?" she asks, not looking at him.

"No, it's..." His eyes flick over her face—her half-lidded eyes, the softness that clings to her features, the aftermath of sleep—and it lodges somewhere deep in his chest, right under the ribs. God, she looks so breakable, he thinks, almost angrily. So delicate, and beautiful. "I'm proposing a deal," he says.

"Oh, a deal," she echoes.

"I come back to the team, and..." He pauses, giving her a long, meaningful look. "You stop drinking."

For a second, she just stares, chewing it over. She presses the tip of her index finger between her lips. "I can just stop," she says, like she's testing the words. "You think I'm an alcoholic?"

Hotch shifts his stance but doesn't flinch. "I think you're flirting with risky habits," he says, carefully. "That's all."

She nods, and okay, they're not exactly out for blood anymore. Not right now, anyway. "I'll even join AA if you give me more of that," she says, batting her lashes like she's auditioning for a mascara commercial. But he shakes his head, pulling the spoon from his mouth with a clean pop.

"You're cruel," she huffs. "Have you been running? With your girlfriend? You're kinda... sweaty. Just a little." She coughs, then clears her throat. "By the way, I'd like to issue a formal apology to Beth. She seems like a perfectly nice woman, and I've been a complete asshole."

"Beth broke up with me this morning," Hotch says, flat as a pancake. "She figured out that you're the same Emily I told her about a few months ago when my therapist suggested I talk things through. Wanna know what she said?"

Emily leans in, propped on her elbows, maybe even rising up on her toes just to swipe a spoonful from him. "What'd she say?"

"She said I can finally stop regretting not fucking my coworker."

Her eyes go full fish-eye, and that kind of expression usually comes with a cartoon sound effect. "Hotch, I am so sorry," she says, but her mouth twitches just enough to give her away. Her eyebrows lift, then pull together, and her nose scrunches just before she clamps a hand over her mouth. "I promise, I don't think this is funny."

"Go get your shoes," he hates that he has the littlest smile, pointing her toward the stairs. "We'll stop by your place so you can grab some clothes."

-

"It's a good thing we got the kid," Emily says on the jet ride home, two days later.

Hotch just stares out the window, bone-tired. Yeah, they saved the kid, but not the family. And what that kid's got to face now is not a fight anyone else can win for him.

After a long pause, Hotch exhales through his nose. "Jack has a game tomorrow. Come if you want."

-

Hotch keeps it quick and simple as he explains to her that he thought it was best to tell Jack she's gone to—what was it again? Greece?—for work. Death is still a delicate subject, and Jack balances it like a tightrope walker.

When Jack hugs her, Emily looks like a wounded duckling, her expression softening as she leans closer. Jack looks up at her and says, "You still smell good like Aunt Emily."

She lets out a small, watery laugh. "Thank you, honey. You look like you're five feet taller."

-

"Are you really making him a pickle and chip sandwich?" Hotch asks, every bit of judgment lacing his tone as he sits down at the table after tackling a mountain of late reports.

"He's an athlete, Hotch," she replies, like it makes sense, handing the plate to Jack, who takes it with a toothy grin.

"Can Aunt Emily sleep over?"

-

"You two sleeping together?" Rossi is the first one to ask, diving straight into the deep end, as usual. And no—they're not. Not technically. Well, for a week now, they've just been... sleeping. Together.

It's not like Hotch has gone out of his way to offer her his abs as some kind of insomnia remedy, but for whatever reason, her hands seem to find their way there.

And brushing his lips against her skin seems to help her drift off as well, and also, his thigh between her legs seems to be... soothing. But does that count as sleeping together? Technically? Probably not.

"Not that it's any of your business," Hotch says without even glancing at Rossi. No point—Rossi's going to read between the lines whether you hand him the full manuscript or not. "We just share a bed. I've noticed she doesn't like going back to her apartment."

Rossi hums, not buying the nonchalance for a second. "She hasn't even unpacked her boxes. Furniture's still wrapped in bubble wrap—Reid said so. You should talk to her."

"I—" Hotch sets his pen down on the desk, tapping it lightly against the wood. If he's being completely honest—it's not that he doesn't want her to go back to sleeping in her own bed. It's just... nice, knowing she's right there. Not dead. Warm, safe, bundled up in the oldest, baggiest clothes from his closet. He likes it. More than he probably should. And Rossi, of course, has already clocked every last bit of his reasons by now.

"Maybe you should tell Morgan to ease up on her," Hotch says, because there's no point pretending Rossi doesn't already know everything.

"He will."

"And tell Reid to be there for the cooking thing. That's an order."

"They're already on speaking terms, I believe. Pretty sure they had lunch together yesterday."

"Good," Hotch mutters, sitting back in his chair. "That was getting a little out of hand."

-

"Those earrings suit you," he says as they wait at Rossi's door, fresh off the buzzer.

Emily pokes her tongue into her cheek, then shrugs with a small, shy smile.

"Prentiss, you're blushing. I don't think I've ever seen that happen before."

"That's because you never paid close enough attention," she fires back, biting her lip and turning just as the door swings open.

"Rossi, hope it's cool I invited the boss," she teases as they step inside. Rossi waves them through with some smooth Italian, which Emily responds to fluently—perfectly, in fact. And, well, Hotch might be the king of composure, but right now it takes everything in him not to kiss her then and there. Professionalism and all that. Even if they're miles from the office.

Later, with Reid cracking puns nearby, he pulls her in by the counter where JJ had just been distracting Emily with small talk. He leans down, his voice just for her. "What did you say to Rossi earlier, when we got here?"

She brushes a lock of hair behind her ear with a practiced, innocent look—the one that could make his head spin if he let it. "Told him hot bosses are allowed at the party."

"Everyone get to try the wine too, or is that, like, breaking our deal?" she adds, eyes flickering toward the bottle.

"Occasionally having a drink with friends," Hotch offers vaguely. "Doesn't constitute a risky habit."

She grins, a quiet chuckle slipping out, and scratches the side of her neck, as if... embarrassed. It's the kind of look makes his thoughts spiral down to places they shouldn't—not here, not now.

"Forget it," she murmurs, but there's a flicker of something mischievous behind her eyes.

"You were asking for permission," he understands now.

"Something like that."

He leans in closer, his breath at her ear. "You can have a full glass, but if I see it empty, I'll make sure to taste it straight from your mouth in front of everyone."

"I don't know if—" She runs her tongue across her lips, turning to look at him with half a growl. "Forgot how mean you can be with new recruits."

-

Halfway through a glass of wine, Morgan tips the bottle his way as he sits with his knees together next to Rossi's expensive coffee-colored armchair.

"Truth or dare," Reid says, hesitantly. "That's something I never imagined myself saying to Hotch."

"Truth," he replies flatly, every pair of eyes in the room on him.

"Okay, then," Reid says, tossing his hair back. "Who do you think is the funniest in the team?"

"My lack of smiles speaks volumes about it," he replies, half-apologetically, but his gaze shifts to Emily, who raises her glass with just a drop of wine left.

She lifts one corner of her lip in a smirk.

Hotch returns the smile—because, naturally, he can't resist.

"Looks like we have a winner," Emily whistles as she stands, twirling, while the others audibly protest her victory in a nonexistent contest.

-

When Emily shows up in the doorway later that week, she sneezes twice before even getting her coat off. “Yeah, it’s been making the rounds. You were bound to catch it eventually,” he says, patting her shoulder. “Throat holding up?”

“Barely. Jack’s fever gone?”

“He’s better, but he’s still complaining about a headache.”

“Okay, let’s see,” she says, moving into the living room with him trailing behind. She stops by the TV, still blaring, where Jack is half-asleep, bundled up to his neck at the couch.

“Hi, honey,” she says softly.

Hotch winces. The last time his aunt baby-talked him, Jack stormed up the stairs, announcing “I’m not a baby!” at least four times. But Emily… doesn’t get that treatment.

“Pretty sure the TV isn’t doing your beautiful eyes a favor right now,” she kicks off her shoes, pulls her hair into a ponytail, and sits down on the same couch. Jack shifts, resting his cheek on her lap, turning his back to the TV.

“Try a nap, kid,” she says, running a hand through his hair. “You look like you need it.”

“Are you here to take care of me?”

“I am. And for cuddles. Your dad can’t sleep without cuddles.”

Hotch drops onto the couch next to her, exhaling a long sigh.

“I don’t like cuddles,” Jack mutters through a yawn. “I’m a big boy.”

“Fair enough.”

-

Emily ends up trapped in the tiny-arms, stuffy-nosed department not long after—Jack curled around her, fast asleep. She’s found a pillow in the form of Hotch’s torso, and his knee has been asleep for ten minutes, but he doesn’t dare move.

“You sleep just like this, you know,” she murmurs.

Emily glances up, meeting his gaze, and reaches for the remote, lowers the volume on the TV. “Are you cold?”

Hotch hadn’t even noticed until she asked. “Not really,” he lies—but yeah, he’s freezing. Just a little.

“Come here,” she says, brushing the backs of her fingers across his forehead, her touch cool as ice. “You’re burning up, tiger. Scoot over, take some medicine. Protocol—medicine first, cuddles after.”

-

“Drink this,” is the first thing he hears when he stirs awake at some random hour of the night. Emily is handing him a glass as he sits up in bed, balancing a very large, very sleepy Jack in her arms, cradling him against her shoulder like an oversized baby. She gently rocks him, a second nature. “You’ve been coughing.”

Hotch blinks, still catching up, his head pounding under the glow of the lamp. He reaches for the glass, no hesitation, taking a sip. Just water.

“Is he okay?” Hotch asks.

Emily shifts Jack’s weight, keeping him tucked against her. “Yeah, fell asleep just now. He was crying because his voice sounded funny, and he was worried it might never go back to normal.”

“Mm, what?”

“A valid concern.”

“I can put him back to bed,” Hotch offers, already sliding a leg off the mattress.

“No, it’s okay. I’ve got this.”

He pauses, feeling the dull throb in his head flare a little more. He knows better than to argue, but still—“Are you sure?”

“I like that he thinks I can fix things.” Her voice is so soft, and it hits him right in that tender place inside his chest, stirring something warm and raw.

He scratches at his bare shoulder, searching for words through the fog of illness, still barely coherent. “You fix lots of things. People like you. You fix things for people all the time.”

Emily chuckles. “Your brain is officially toast, sick pants. Go back to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

-

Tomorrow that he finally finds the energy to unpack the boxes in his room, just before he heads to work and just before he leaves Jack with his aunt because he can’t take another personal day off.

“Someone’s feeling energetic,” Emily says when she spots him in the room—no later than five in the morning—and kneels beside him on the carpet, sipping from a steaming cup of tea.

“Planning on going to work today?”

“We’re heading to Ohio. The jet leaves at eight-fifteen. Jack’s aunt is coming.”

“You’re already in a suit,” Emily points out, absently taking another sip of her tea. “It’s a really nice suit. How much time do we have again?”

-

“I think you should bring some of your stuff in,” he says, unhooking her bra with a tug and kissing the core of her collarbones, his fingers brushing against the smooth skin of her stomach—it twitches at the contact, so sensitive. “What do you think? I can make more space in the closet for you.”

“At this rate,” she replies, a breathless tease in her voice, “we’ll be planning the honeymoon before I even get around to sucking you off.”

“Jesus, Emily,” he mutters, feeling her hand loosen his tie, pulling him in to capture his mouth in a kiss that’s ridiculously good and totally hungry.

funny how it disappears the second you give in - leavemurph (2024)
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