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Emily’s been conflicted. Uncertain about the one thing that she knows without a question of a doubt. That’s the problem with knowing the right answer but not having the bravery to do the right thing. Is this the right thing? There isn’t even such a thing. No way to know except when it’s somehow obvious, but only when it’s wrong. How would Emily even know if this was right? It only appears right, but mirages exist solely in confoundment, in the vulnerability of need.
Hotch leaves socks everywhere. His nightstand always has at least three glasses of water and various other things stacked atop its small surface – Hotch’s glasses precariously at the top. He shaves in the sink and “cleans” it but there’s always little hairs everywhere. He uses three-in-one soap in the shower. Snores. Hogs the covers. Sweats in his sleep.
But… Emily has never needed Hotch, he’s always been there. She couldn’t explain the feeling because it isn’t just one. It’s like a live wire connects them, courses from one of them to the other in a constant exchange of energy. Which makes it a physical matter, her body knows his well in this exchange of equal parts. She had felt a disturbance in her chest, like her heart couldn’t quite work as well as it wanted, before she had found Hotch in the hospital after Foyet’s attack. Her body stung with the burns from the near severance, the entry and exit of burning high voltage through delicate skin. The wire throws sparks, sizzles and arcs a bright white heat but it stays connected.
Toe to toe, lip to lip. A give and take of equal parts, understanding until her hand moves to the sore spot on his side or his rough thumb exactly where the throb is in her head. The shivers of desperation and adrenaline, cold lips. The smell of sterility and medicine. The taste of salty tears or copper blood. Love in only desperation, love without bravery and dedication. Love as it exists rawly.
She knows that he loves her. It soothes her aching heart just a little to consider the warmth. The way that he extends his fingers out to her, waiting for her to take hold of him. Never speaking, never needing to. He looks at her the way no one else ever has – understanding her. Knowing what she wants, how she needs it. There is never a hint of annoyance, of inconvenience. He wants to love, and god Emily hopes she’s shown him the same.
He could die and she will never know or he may live and she still doesn’t know how to change it. Mostly, she can’t.
She sits. Pacing becomes taxing, her legs now trying to shake embarrassingly with adrenaline now useless but ever present through her. Reid doesn’t seem to mind that she chooses the chair beside him. He’s chosen to sit right beside JJ, and now Emily is forced to hear the trance-like information in his dry, never fluctuating monotone as if all he is stating is merely facts. Devoid of the attachment they all know Reid has for Hotch. But Hotch has been on blood thinners for years, all kinds of medications that Spencer could recall with incredible accuracy and no hesitation to bridge the gap between prescription names and the duty they fulfilled. These things accounted for how Hotch had panicked, why he had fought them so ceaselessly as they tried to slow the rapid dumping of his blood onto the floor. He was in shock.
The team is already in shambles. Uneasily, none of them know where or how to stand by each other. Trust is such a delicate thing, such a tricky feeling to have alongside love. And that’s what the problem is – love. And if Emily dying and now suddenly being alive was not challenging enough, Hotch has made it worse. He’s made it impossible to feel petty. Forced open again were the roles they know instinctively with one another. Reid and Morgan had kneeled down beside one another, calling to JJ for help on the radio as Hotch lay crumpled on the floor. It didn’t matter that Hotch had lied to them, his warm blood spreading beneath their fingers had warned of distance with permanence. He wouldn’t be across the ocean this time, technically only one emergency phone call away. And so they placed their hands over the wounds, trying to ward off the black closing in Hotch’s vision.
It’s haunting imagery even as Reid recounts it so factually.
Somehow, it makes the doctor’s news go down more smoothly. Emily’s thinking about how the surgeon looks very much like a nonsense kind of military guy, seems very trustworthy, like the perfect guy to be working on Hotch. It takes a moment to hear the doctor and she frowns, “what?”
“We’re going to take Agent Hotchner up to surgery but the operation room won’t be ready for another twenty minutes.” The doctor says this slowly, watching Emily’s face still mixed with confusion. “He’s asked for you, I can take you back to his room.”
Dumbly, Emily onlys nods. Her numb lips mumble out, “Yeah, okay.”
They go just down the hall, turn and the doctor motions her forward into a room. Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity – not a single trait she possesses at this moment. Professionalism stripped. Masks out of place. The fear of losing Hotch sits immensely on her chest, enough that she can’t stand the reality of seeing him. Had he faltered in her doorway like this? Too afraid to see her attached to machines, in moments so intimate and tense Emily’s mind has wiped them from her memory. It scares her that she might see through him here, feel his weak heart and his dying breath.
Still, she can’t resist seeing him. Emily has spent so long without them all but even now Hotch feels so far away. She can see that parts of him are not here, have not arrived yet from the plane overseas. Maybe he can see that about her too.
Emily’s stomach sours at the familiarity of the sight of Hotch laying still. His head turns ever slowly towards the noise at the door, his lips cracking upward feebly. Unable to stop herself, Emily smiles at Hotch.
“Em–” he mouths the rest of her name and Emily moves faster to him, around the other side of the bed to take his cold, clammy hand. He opens his mouth again and Emily presses her lips to his, preventing his voice from catching on her name. The oxygen canal under his nose is wedged between them, plastic digging into the skin of their faces but deterring neither. Emily moves just enough to touch her forehead to his, their breath hot against the other’s face and still Hotch tries to tip his head up. “Emily,” her name is so loose on his tongue that it’s no better gargled out but it’s her’s.
“Shh,” tears finally fall down her face and Emily stands back up, hearing the distressed noise that leaves Hotch. She wipes her eyes and when her hands move from her line of vision, his pale fingers are stretched up in search of her. Emily doesn’t think about taking his hand, wrapping both of hers around his, so gentle and mindful of the wires and lines poking under his skin and monitoring his body. His grip is delicate but desperate, her own possessive.
They say nothing. Tears wedge from the corners of their eyes. Uselessly, Hotch opens his mouth and weakly his voice tries to obey his mindless command to say her name. It seems the only thing he’s capable of, the only thing he needs or wants to say. She brings his hand to her lips, first to kiss and then gently pressing a little bit of warmth back his fingers. Emily holds his hand to her face, closes her eyes and relaxes into the feeling of his fingers gently spreading to touch her cheeks, the corners of her eyes, her nose.
Overcome by some sort of sorcery, Hotch lies perfectly still, his unseeing eyes are aimed at Emily, fingers loosely woven in her’s as the doctor’s prepare to take him to surgery. Emily knows any sort of separation between them would snap him from wherever he’s sunken to, because she knows he’s only kind of here with her. Tethered by the curl of her fingers around his. She watches his eyes sink as sedatives swirl into his IV, the moment that he becomes tired and fights it.
Irritatedly, Hotch tries to shift and he groans, not feeling pain, but his body is still aware of the injury. His fingers clench and Emily steps a little closer, watching his face as she holds his hand tighter, their palms together. His face relaxes against his will, eyes sinking and hardening in intensity for the briefest moment on her.
“Don’t go–” he chokes out, she feels a fleeting strength in his grip on her hand. Where his fingers press into the skin of her hand, trying to keep her here. There’s a sharp clarity in the request, in his eyes. He knows what comes next, knows this feeling, he wants to wake up and find her here. He wants her holding his hand. He wants… her.
“I–” her voice is no stronger than his, it breaks more tears from her eyes. I can’t – but she can. She could. Emily is here now, she could be here when he wakes again. She stands watching him watch her, the neverending stream of tears following the soft lines of age in the corners of his eyes. Stray tears that slide down the tip nose. But she’s not brave enough to love him like this when he’ll remember.
“Emily.”
“Relax,” Emily manages, her voice wet and suddenly Hotch’s hand is so very heavy. “You’re going to be fine,” she says gently, moving her grip to hold the weight of his arm. Mirroring tears fall from their eyes as weakly Hotch tries one last time to speak her name. Only his lips move, his eyes on her until they finally shut, tears falling down his face. His fingers give a twitch and Emily squeezes his hand back quickly.
She can’t let him go. His hand is limp in hers, tears that Emily caused are fat and damp on his dark eyelashes. She hears the doctors and nurses preparing to move him, she knows she needs to place his hand back on the bed, but she holds it. Maybe he is still awake, still fighting desperately to twitch his fingers again, to move his slackened lips to form her name. She squeezes his deadened fingers and this time it’s his name that goes unanswered. “Aaron?” Emily reaches to touch his face, not hearing a nurse trying to direct her out. “I love you,” mindlessly, Emily brushes a tear from his eye. “Aaron?”
It feels as though there is nothing to say. Dreadfully, aimlessly Emily walks back to the waiting room. The floor… the walls… tile… She moves on feet that just seem to know where to go because her head is empty. Stuffed, almost, with soft cotton like a doll. She can feel the soft, dry edges touching her skull. Maybe it’s just bellows of smoke, nothing solid at all but graciously containing quantities of heat in bursts.
Whatever it is – it hurts.
—----------------
The knife bites under the side of Emily’s chin and burns where her skin splits under the blade. Blood rushes in her ears, drowning out Ian’s grumbled monologue, the hairs on her arms painful pinpricks. Ian stays close, his hot breath burns her cold skin as he breathes her name, Lauren, against her neck. He comes up, lips brushing above the bleeding cut on her jaw, to her ear. Emily can hear Ian’s smile as he whispers into her ear, making her twitch, trying to flinch away from proximity. “That looks like it hurts.”
Emily takes a shuddering breath, stills herself, and looks over to Ian. Her lips tight, her voice hissing as she reminds him, “You’ve done worse.” She looks into his eyes, unnerved by the knife point touching her skin at one sharp point. Ian had hurt her worse, putting his hands on her too many times to count. Their relationship was always real, regardless of the details. Years ago, she loved him too much, stood in his kitchen with tears in her eyes, glass shards in her hair, and around her feet. Ian would come back a few days later with purple lilies the same shades as her healing bruises.
Ian smile sours, twists into a snarl. He grabs the back of Emily’s hair, jerking her head back, and Emily shouts at the sudden strain, her toes pushing at the floor as much as she can as he pulls for her to move further than she can. Ian puts the knife back against her throat, against where her throat bulges at the angle, but Emily doesn’t look away. There is no fear. She’s not afraid of him. When Ian sees it, he releases her with a chuckle. Emily rocks back down with a thud, she leans forward, dropping her hair over her face as she wills her tears to go away. She can’t cry. She can’t.
Ian crouches down in front of her, putting his hand on her knee and guiding it up until he’s touching her side. He’d bound her arms and legs to the chair, knowing how clever his Lauren could be when presented with a challenge. He just looks at her, taking his time, she can’t go anywhere. Ian reaches up from her side and touches her cheek with the back of his hand. He smiles when she leans her head away. Shaking his head, Ian sighs. “I wasn’t talking about you,” he says sweetly. She’s startled and doesn’t flinch when he reaches up to push his hand through her hair and hold the side of her head. Bringing her close to him. “I know what you can take, Lauren.” Emily flinches as Ian stands too suddenly, his hands coming down, and grabs the sides of the chairs and jerks her around. “I was talking about him.” The spin startles her, making her unable to gather her bearings for a moment. Staring through a spinning room full of black dots, it takes her a moment to realize what she’s looking at. Who she’s looking at.
Laying semi-conscious on the floor in front of two of Ian’s men is Hotch. Emily tries to keep a straight face, seeing his drained complexion and his mouth hanging open to suck at laborious breaths while his eyes rest aimlessly on the concrete below.
Ian gives a silent gesture and the men nod, hauling Hotch upright. One grabs Hotch by the hair, pulling his fallen head up, and places the blade under Hotch’s chin, drawing blood.
Hotch’s face is pale, white and his throat bared to her as one of Ian’s men holds Hotch upright by his hair. She can see the whites of his eyes. Hotch makes a small sound, a ragged breath, and Emily watches his eyes move. But his efforts get him nowhere, his chest moves faintly with his shallow breaths, his blood just keeps rushing down his front. His pants are soaked. The floor's puddle is only growing. He’ll bleed to death, Emily realizes. He's going to die. Stop. Stop. Stop. Emily sets her eyes forward. Ian starts talking again but she can hardly think, let alone hear. Foyet had Hotch for an hour, at least. Video footage, she’d watched it all, and Hotch had survived each slow-moving second. Survived. She glances over at Hotch again, watching his eyes slowly roll forward again, his consciousness fleeting but there. Still there.
Caught in Hotch’s deadened glaze, Emily sits perfectly still. She can’t look away from him. She watches blood trickle down his neck, slipping down below his collar to gather and soak into his shirt.
Ian says nothing. The man with the knife smirks and nods his head.
“No!” Emily yelps but it’s too late.
Hotch clutches at his throat, not pain twisted on his face but confusion, and he’s looking right at her. His mouth opens and Emily tries to scream his name but she can make no sound, suddenly doesn’t have the breath to. The men release their hold on him and Hotch falls limply forward, head hitting the ground, and he lays on his stomach.
Emily watches as he twitches and shakes, as the blood begins to puddle out and slowly stops.
It isn’t until Ian steps between them that Emily truly believes what’s in front of her.
“Tell me where Declan is, sweetheart. Don’t make his death senseless.”
Death. Hotch is dead. He’s really dead. Emily’s eyes rake over his prone form, waiting, until she realizes that he has fallen completely still. No longer shaking or twitching. She’s the one shaking, that she has snot and tears soaking her face. She can’t look away from the back of Hotch’s head, all the short hairs on the back sticking this way and that. All Emily can feel is pain, bright and heavy from her shoulders to her stomach. The nevers. All the things that will never happen again. The fact that she’s sitting here and he’s… and he’s gone and all she wants is for him to come back already. The weight of it sucks at Emily’s air, her hope to live right now bled to death in front of her, and no matter how she gasps for it, every breath isn’t enough.
“Emily!” Ian is in her face in an instant. “Emily!”
Emily suddenly finds her arms free and wildly, eyes pinched shut, blindly she swings at him. Her shoulders are grabbed and Emily jerks with the hard shake she’s giving. Opening her eyes, Emily finds herself inches from Dave, his too-tight fingers holding onto her arms. “Emily?”
She blinks, eyes adjusting to the darkness in the room. Looking at Dave all she can think of is Hotch on that floor. Dave would be devastated, and Emily realizes she’s still crying, still sucking at the air – she’s devasted. Dave says nothing more, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her against his chest. His hand rests atop her head and he sways them gently. Emily clings to him, her fingers aching with her hold on his shirt.
“Oh sweetheart,” Dave whispers, rubbing her back. “I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night and worrying myself gray over that man for the last twenty-years.” Pressed against him, Emily can feel him take in a deep breath and shake his head. “Showed his age a little today, huh?” He shivers a little at the thought. Aaron had shuttered, laid there for moments far too long, too still. Even when Aaron had opened his eyes, his mouth had opened to and the only noise to leave was ragged, gasping breaths he took greedily like the air in the room had been thinned out.
Emily hides herself against him for a moment, knowing immediately that her dreams must not have been very silent. That she must have screamed for Hotch like she had tried in her dream.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She’s there again in an instant, Hotch’s ashy face looking back at her. “No.” Emily sits up, turning her head away as she wipes at her face with the end of her t-shirt. The weight of the grief is still there, it’s pressed and wedged itself up under her ribs. And any thought of it brings another wave of tears and she can’t keep them at bay.
Dave looks at her softly, “alright.” He knows even if she won’t say – he doesn’t know but he is correct in the educated guess he’s made. She was dreaming about Hotch, not a happy dream. “He’s probably awake,” Dave offers, “old habits die hard.”
Hotch is an insomniac. The coffee he consumed never helped but Hotch is a nocturnal man, Emily knows he’d normally be awake. The hospital had released him with medication, cocktails of things that should certainly put Hotch to bed early tonight, but that is dependent on him taking them as prescribed and… Emily knows he hasn’t taken them.
“They checked him over good,” Dave reaches over and wipes a tear from the side of her face, “he’ll be moving slow for a while, but he’s okay.” Dave pats Emily’s leg, “might wanna splash some water on your face.”
Emily nods and stops, narrowing her eyes a moment at the ground. She looks at Dave for a moment, compulsively going to question how he’d made the assumption she was going to leave their room and go look for Hotch, and then deciding better. She wipes at her face with her hands again and moves with Dave to stand. Her legs shake beneath her but Emily rights herself, finding them not weak just unstable. All of her is shaking. As she walks to the bathroom, Emily can hear Dave opening the hotel door, peaking outside.
He comes to the closed bathroom door and gives a soft knock, “He’s getting something from the vending machine.”
“Okay,” Emily says back. She doesn’t look closely at herself, just under her tired eyes to make sure she really got her mascara off before. Checking the water with her fingers, Emily bows her head and splashes some water over her face, an immediately regrettable decision as she closes her eyes and there he is again. Pale bloodless face and all the white’s of his eyes. The back of his head and the cowlick he can never tame.
She can’t keep seeing him like this.
Emily says nothing to Dave as she leaves, attempting to look inconspicuous without any hope. Nothing she has done in the last forty-eight hours has been very low profile. Most of the first day is blank. Vividly, Emily remembers the hospital but after she left Hotch’s room she had just moved like a robot. For the team she scraped together a few words, Hotch was conscious but too weak to speak. And then she went to the precinct, picked up all the paperwork she could find, and has been cooped up in her hotel room since. Which has been fine because Rossi has stayed at the hospital except tonight Hotch is in the hotel too, waiting with the rest of them on arranging travel plans in the morning.
Emily steps out into the cold and she sees Hotch immediately. He’s at the end of the hall, leaning on the last bit of railing against the brick. She hasn’t seen him since she’d gone back before his surgery.
He looks better than he had before. He’s back in his own clothing, only a t-shirt and what looks like pajama bottoms. Naturally, she thinks, he wouldn’t think to grab a coat. Emily tries to make her eyes wander, she scans miscellaneous trash scattered along the ground, cigarette butts left nearby but seldomly within pots that likely once had flowers but not recently, but she looks back up.
Hotch backs up from the rail, his arm cradled tightly to his chest by the sling, and his head down.
Only a few steps away, Emily moves her foot out and nudges a flowerpot. She smiles when Hotch’s head snaps up. The pain is quickly hidden behind by accusing squinted eyes, “Sneaking up on me?”
Emily rolls her eyes, “if you weren’t going–”
“What?” Hotch interrupts, loudly.
“Nothing,” Emily puffs. She was going to say deaf, if you weren’t going deaf… He should have heard her coming. He needs to get his hearing checked again. “Nevermind. What’re you doing out here?”
Hotch painfully straightens himself up and nods his head toward the vending machines humming in the alcove. “Snack,” he answers simply. “I could ask you the same,” he cocks his head to the side in a way that very much means that he is asking.
Emily hums, stepping around him, and nodding her head toward the machines – she expects that he’ll understand her silence, as that’s how it’s supposed to go – but he stays right where he is, that gloomy glare all the more frightening without any lights to soften it. “What?” she asks, finally.
Hotch shifts himself carefully, his hand never leaves the railing, “Why are you awake?”
Emily huffs, “That was not the question we agreed on.”
Silence.
More gloomy glare.
Emily sighs, “I’ll tell you, alright?” She motions her hand toward the machines, “But I need a snack first.”
Hotch accepts the bargain with a nod and his face tenses, jaw clenched as he drags himself forward a step, releasing his grip on the railing, his safety. The next step is stuttered, stiff –
Emily mutters and steps up beside him, wrapping her arm around his back. “Thought you got shot in the shoulder, not the leg.” She can think of no better excuse to invade his personal space and Emily finds comfort in the feeling of the muscles in his back constricting and pulling. Emily can’t help but look up at him, wondering if this is a good excuse in his mind too.
“I’m bruised head-to-toe,” Hotch manages slowly, wrapping his arm around her, each word spoken one by one. “My head hurts…”
The sound that comes from Emily is wet, a little less dismissing huff than she would have preferred. She can just see his eyes losing their focus as he thinks, it’s half a laugh and half… not. His pain is unbearable, worse than her own somehow.
Hotch looks at her, steps not exactly moving in a straight direction and therefore reliant on Emily to keep them going forward. Drugs have made his tongue loose in his mouth, and without his normal filter, Hotch raises an eyebrow, “that can’t be why you’re awake.”
Emily repeats the noise and she can see it’s even more confusing for him, and still an unconscious confirmation. She rolls her eyes, “no.”
“Very convincing.”
“Not everything’s about you, Aaron.” Looking at him, Emily can’t help but smile and he can’t seem to help it either. Emily turns to the bright lights of the vending machine, slipping out from under Hotch. “I need chocolate. What’re you getting?”
Hotch leans against a machine, looking at his options. “Pretzels.”
Emily makes a face but makes the selection, watching his treat fall to the bottom of the machine. Her eyes rake over the options, consciously ignoring Hotch’s even gaze on her.
“I have an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon Tuesday.”
Emily gets a Snickers, puts in the code, and bends down for the snacks.
“It was a relatively clean shot. The bone should heal on its own without a second surgery.”
Emily’s lip twist, “not very clean.” It leaves only a whisper but when she stands, she can tell he’s heard her. He’s looking at her with a flat, interpreting gaze, like he’s right inside her head, floating around with her racing thoughts. “It wasn’t.” Her voice is tight, her whole body fighting his invasion. “You–” her voice cracks. She’s not fighting him, she’s fighting the tears that have been trying to fall all day.
Hotch steps forward and Emily throws her hand up. “No,” she says, firmly but softly. “Please…” her voice is still shaky and he stands still, waiting patiently as she takes a deep breath. Emily clears her throat and wipes her eyes, she looks up at him with a smile. Eyes still wet, she laughs, “I can’t handle a hug right now just–”
Hotch nods, understanding.
She smiles tensely, forcing another laugh, trying to shake the rest of the feelings away. “God, Hotchner,” she scrubs her hand down her face, “why do you always do this to me?”
Hotch’s lips tighten.
Emily takes another shaky breath and she rolls her eyes at the expression on Hotch’s face. “Your face is going to get stuck like that one these days,” she says, raising an eyebrow at him.
His dark eyes keep seeing right into her, his silence strong. With the release of a breath he relaxes just a little, “how do we know it hasn’t already?”
“Good point,” Emily agrees. “It does usually look like that.”
“Mmm,” Hotch hums. Seeing the face he’s making, Emily already feels annoyed before he speaks. “I can only assume you have more on your mind tonight besides my face being stuck like this. It’s never kept you up before, at least.”
Emily narrows her eyes, smiling, “you’re relentless.” He seems unbothered by the accusation. Emily’s smile falls into a tense grimace, “it has nothing to do with– … you.” She really wants to finish the sentiment strongly but she meets his eyes. Lying is fun, it’s easy. When lying can also hide her carefully behind the safety of its shade, there’s nothing she would rather do. But she doesn’t want to lie, not when she’s looking right at him.
“It’s just dreams,” Emily’s voice surprises herself, how softly, tentatively she speaks.
“They’re never just dreams.”
Does he know? Somehow, Emily thinks he can see right to the dream itself. A strange mirroring image of the man standing over her now and the one on his knees – both looking at her, waiting on her. “It was a different dream tonight,” her eyes dart between his, “but the same thing always happens…”
He has to know. He’s looking at her like he can see himself, like he can see her thrashing in her imaginary bonds. “What happens?”
His voice is too soft, he’s too gentle. Emily doesn’t want to cry but her lips are bunching up, betraying her with an ugly cry building itself up. She can’t look at him. “I lose you,” her voice breaks.
“Emily.” Does she say his name like this? There’s little time to wonder, eyes closed she goes where he tips her chin up, knowing he’ll taste the tears falling down her face when his lips press to hers. “Emily,” she can feel his breath on her face. She could hear him say her name over and over. He says it like no one’s ever spoken her name before. The thrill is like hearing your mother language in a foreign country. Like hearing it for the very first time. “I’m here. I’m here.”
“I know,” she complies miserably, “I know.” She cries anyway and he comes closer. Emily realizes that she’s leaning into his side. His side because his arm is strapped securely between them, bound to his chest. His hand on the back of her head until she’s done, left with only a little embarrassment.
“I have something for you,” Hotch says and Emily laughs wiping at her face.
“What is it?”
Emily feels with giddy excitement to take Hotch’s hand to go back down the hall to try and silently slip through the room he’s sharing with Reid without waking him. She’s surprised the genius is sleeping at all but the last few days have been exhausting, she doesn’t know how she’s awake. Hotch opens the door to the little porch connected to the room. “Wait,” Hotch whispers, easing the door shut.
She waits anxiously outside, shivering with excitement encouraged with the chill of the wind. It’s all of a minute and the door is opening as Hotch comes back out. Emily can see at once that Hotch’s nerves have taken him over, making him unsure of himself.
“It’s… kind of strange,” he says, not meeting her eyes, and she finds the gift curled in his fingers. She moves her hands close to his to accept it into her hand. “The bullet chipped my collar bone,” his cheeks are flushed, red with embarrassment. “You don't have to keep it. I thought… I thought you might want it.”
Bone, his bone. A chip of his bone. Emily closes her fingers around it, squeezing it in her palm. When her fingers open the bone feels so different. Her thumb strokes it curiously. “I love it,” she says, examining it between her thumb and forefinger.
“Y– You do?” Emily looks up – he seems so surprised. Surprised and then warm, something incredibly warm shines over his eyes, changing the way that he’s looking at her. “I love you.”
Emily opens her mouth, she’s only more confused by Hotch’s certainty. He makes no move to take it back. No nerves. He’s looking right at her and he knows it, he’s just telling her. It’s more than that. She can tell it’s more. He knows she loves him too.
“You were all I could think about.”
He had asked for her in the hospital. Had he been saying her name all that time before she’d come back? The same persistence or worse than what she’d seen when she had been right beside him holding his hand. Emily looks all the way up at him as he stands closer and closer. Her lips part for his and she lets him kiss her again, barely restraining from leaning fully into him.
“I couldn’t stand the thought of dying without seeing you one last time,” he whispers against her lips, looking deep into her surprised eyes. “You’d better be the last thing I see before I die.”
Emily’s breath stutters, her eyes dart down to his lips, before coming back up to his eyes. “Ask for me,” she whispers.
“I’ll always ask for you, Emily.”