…she's visiting

The first time it happens Emily's visiting for the first time.

He suspects that it is one hundred percent Garcia's doing, but that doesn't mean he isn't glad for it. They've been struggling a bit, he knows. They always do when one of them is hurting and it always seems more acute when it's Reid that's suffering. It doesn't hurt that Emily's always had a special way with Reid.

They get lucky for the week she's in DC. They're not called away on a case, just the regular consults from the comfort of their own bullpen. Garcia and JJ both take actual time off – and that's when he realizes this has been in planning for a while – and he rushes through a last minute request from Reid. Whatever Reid and Emily do that day seems to brighten the genius' spirit. He's beyond thankful.

That's why he finds himself in front of her hotel room one evening with a nice bottle of wine. It's just to say thank you, he tells himself, because Reid seems better. Plus, they were friends, and he's the only one she hasn't made any over effort to make time with. He'd be more offended, but he is entirely too grateful.

"Hotch!"

She's all happy smiles and he is so glad. There's no gloom, not the kind that hung over her after she returned from Doyle's death.

"Come in!"

He does and his lips twitch as she hums happiness over the bottle of wine. She's got a little suite with a kitchenette, and apparently it comes equipped with a corkscrew. He's glad. It would have been infinitely embarrassing to have forgotten one.

"Where's Jack?" she asks, as she gets to work.

"Ryan's," he answers, standing awkwardly. It feels weird to sit, he thinks, but he can't say that standing feels any more comfortable. He shouldn't be at odds with her presence and he can't put his finger on why he's feeling so off.

"Ryan, Ryan," she murmurs to herself and he finds himself smiling a little bit more. It's a familiar habit. "That's a new one."

"It is," Hotch agrees. "They're in the same class."

"I'm glad to hear he's making new friends," she says with genuine warmth. She knows, probably better than anyone, how worried he'd been about Jack's emotional growth after Haley's death.

And then it hits him, with such sudden ferocity, how much he's missed her.

She's been gone eight months now, lived in England, and he hadn't truly grasped much about her until she was gone. He wishes he felt comfortable enough to e-mail like JJ or Morgan or hell, even Rossi, but while they were friends, they were face-to-face friends. They rarely texted, never e-mailed for anything other than work. All of the information he had about her and she about him had come from shared coffees for a break, or nights out with the team. Still, he knows that there's no one the team relied on more. Blake is great and she's been fitting in just fine, but she's not Emily. No one is Emily.

"Hey." She's waving a wine glass under his nose and he shakes his head as he takes it from her.

"Sorry."

"Not often I catch the great Agent Hotchner lost in his own head. Want to talk about it?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing important."

"Hotch," she says on a bit of a sigh. "Tell me you haven't gone back to your workaholic ways."

"No, no," he promises and he's almost laughing now. Eight months away and she worries the same. It gives him comfort, in a weird way. She hasn't changed, even with all that time over in England. Tea and the Queen and accents and she's still just Emily. Their Emily.

His Emily.

She breathes out a deliberate and dramatic sigh of relief. "How is Beth."

He almost scuffs his toe like a child. "Didn't work out," he says.

He can see, from the look on her face, that she's almost devastated by that revelation. It's always seemed to mean more to her than to anyone else. She'd pushed for Will and JJ, hard; she'd been almost as devastated as Rossi when Carolyn passed. She'd been one of the first ones to tell him to fight, if he could, for his marriage. She cheered for Garcia and Kevin for a long time.

"It happens," he says and it's so, so gently. He's come to terms with it. Sure, he and Beth liked each other well enough, but he also knows now that sometimes you just can't make something work.

She sighs and waves to the couch. They settle easily and fall into small talk. She tells him about her colleagues, he tells her about Jack. She tells him the story of getting hopelessly lost and he laughs because she's the one who has traveled and London's giving her trouble. He tells her about some of their more sensational cases, about Strauss and Blake – whom Emily had met briefly.

"And Dave looks at him and actually asks if the guy needs a hug."

Emily's all but rolling on the floor now. They've made it through the bottle of wine and while he's not drunk, they're both definitely tipsy. It's been a while since he's felt this light, felt this free.

"I wish I had been there!"

He doesn't tell her she could have been. He's been steadfastly ignoring some weird growing resentment that's growing in his gut as she speaks so fondly of her coworkers and the life she's building herself. It's hard. They were a family and while yeah, there's an aspect of letting each kid spread their wings and fly, he really hadn't expected her to fly across an ocean.

"Hotch?"

He's gotten lost in his own musings again. He finds himself heaving a sigh of his own and his eyes dart to the digital clock on the bedside table. "It's late."

He tells himself he imagines seeing her face fall.

"Wow," she says instead and no, she can't be faking shock that poorly. "My flight's early tomorrow too. Or, today now."

She's leaving. It makes his stomach clench hard, and he wonders if maybe he shouldn't have had that much to drink. But that can't be it, because he definitely knows he's sober enough to drive. He follows her to the kitchenette's sink and watches her rinse out the wine glasses. He's stalling and it certainly seems like she is too. He tries not to think about it or put more connotations on it than there are.

Except, when she puts the second glass aside, she looks away, bracing herself on the counter. "I miss you," she says softly, her knuckles white.

He doesn't dare reach out, risk touching her when they're teetering on the brink of something. And he can feel like, like his toes are just over the edge of diving into something that could be the worse decision of his life, or the best risk he's ever taken. He's just not entirely sure what he's jumping into yet. "We miss you, too."

"No," she shakes her head. "You, Hotch. I miss you."

It's a strong, revealing statement from someone who keeps her cards so close to her chest.

"It's stupid."

"Maybe not," he finds himself saying, not even aware he'd given himself permission to do so. He's reaching for her too, cupping her elbow, tugging her just a smidge closer. "You're not a stupid person."

She comes with his gentle tug, her fingers wrapping around his elbow. They're close and he can feel the way her breath fans against his neck. It floats beneath his collar and, much to his embarrassment, he feels his pulse throb. It isn't supposed to be like this. Not with Emily and definitely not with her across a bloody ocean.

But he looks down at her, and she up and him, and the next thing he knows their mouths are meeting.

It's an explosion, not that he's usually one for overused phrasing. There's something in it that he hadn't had with Beth. Beth had been comfortable, a good stepping point after the drama with Haley. This is different, stronger, more consuming. It shocks him to even consider that this was what had been missing with his ex, that Emily could be the one to spark it.

When they break, her hand his cupping his neck and he's got one of his own splayed dangerously low on her back. He's wedged a leg between hers and her breasts push against him with every labored inhale.

"What was that?" she whispers, her gaze searching his.

"I don't know."

She nods and he thinks she's going to pull back – and why isn't he again? – but she leans back far enough to press her lips, feather soft, against his neck. His eyes close, even though he knows that this isn't right, that they can't do this. Sure, they're not working together anymore, but he doesn't want to make it all complicated. She's still one of them, still part of the family, and this can't be anything more than one night.

Even so, it doesn't seem to stop him. On the contrary, his hands wander, slipping under the t-shirt she wears until he can touch the satin skin at her back. Her reaction is almost violent as she arches into him at his gentle touch. It makes him shiver to think that such a simple, light caress can evoke such a passionate reaction and he finds himself doing it again, not even in his right mind, just to hear the desperate little sound she makes.

She retaliates with her tongue, wicked against his ear. She's on her tiptoes and it off-balances her enough to have the alpha male in him jumping at the chance to get his hands on her. He grips her hips, pulling and angling until she's pressing against him in all the right places.

"Aaron," she gasps, and it's a bucket of cold water over both of them. They all but scramble apart. She's panting, her eyes wide. "Oh my God."

He swallows thickly, willing his body to just calm down. He can't. They can't. It's stupid and irresponsible and this is Emily. He's never thought of her like this. He's not this man. "We can't."

She nods, even as he sees the flicker of pain that spreads over her face. It's gone in a split second, but he's known too long not to see it. But it doesn't make sense to him, not at all. He doesn't understand the pain.

Her eyes open and there's steel there. It's a resolve that makes his stomach shake and his hands ball into fists. He doesn't like it. "Emily-"

"Thank you for coming," she says, and the cold formality straightens his spine. She hasn't spoken to him like that since the early days, and they've been through way too much for him to accept it now.

So he reaches out, against his better judgment and all the sense in his head. "Don't."

"Sorry?"

He finds himself swallowing, inexplicably nervous. He's always in control, always knows what to do and how to do it. But he's floundering here, unsure and overwhelmed. And he is not a man that gets overwhelmed.

"Don't do that."

She blinks.

He says it, even though she knows what he's talking about. "Don't pull away from me."

It's hypocritical at best. It's exactly what he's done for so many years. Sure, she's not completely innocent of it either, but does he really have the right to ask her not to hide when he can't let go? It's forcing her into a limbo she's not comfortable with, dangling on a precipice with the decision in his hands. He knows better.

He stands there and looks at her, really and truly looks. Years of practice means he can read her micro-expressions. The yearning is there, or maybe it's just plain want. But there's wariness too, worry that this is more than they can let it be. It's not like they're not already attached to each other, but are either of them really the type to be able to have this and then nothing?

I don't care.

The thought floats across his mind as he looks down at her, as his fingers stroke the bare skin of her arm. He sees the fissions of pleasure as they ripple up and down her spine. It wouldn't take much now, he knows, to throw them over the precipice.

So he does.

In a move that is probably more characteristic of his much younger days, he pulls her close and presses his mouth to hers. There's a moment, a split second really, as she takes in what's happening. Then she's meeting him, stroke for stroke, press for press. His tongue brushes her mouth, plays against her lips and she opens with such an aroused groan that his fingers dig into her skin. Her knees buckle and the knowledge that he is responsible for that is such a thrill.

Her arms wrap around his neck, holding on as best she can. He wraps an arm around her back, managing to slide his hand beneath the casual t-shirt she wears. Her skin is warm and smooth as he splays his palm over her back. He can feel the press of her shoulder blades, can press his palm against the knobs of her spine, things he's only imagined on the nights he remembers her time with the team.

She pulls away, her breathing harsh and shallow. Her cheeks are flushed and her lips are swollen and her eyes are dark. His fingers dig into her spine as she steps back, but she's insistent and a moment later she's watching him with blown pupils as she lifts the shirt above her head. Her skin is not flawless, of course, and it's insane that the scars she wears with pride are a turn on. He reaches for her as she drops her shirt, his fingers reaching immediately for the little clover she's had tattooed just above her breast.

"Em-"

She surges forward. She doesn't want to hear words. She doesn't need them, and she certainly doesn't want his pity for what she's been through. She's made her choices and she stands by every single one of them, if only because it's brought her to this moment. If only because it's turned her into this woman.

His head bends, because she's given him permission, and he presses the gentlest of kisses against that burn. He feels her breath catch in her throat, hears it hitch, and drags his fingers softly down her side.

"Oh."

Her fingers thread through his hair as he takes a chance and brushes his tongue against her scarred flesh. His fingers slide along the edge of her jeans, callouses against soft skin and he kisses his way back up to her mouth. She tugs him in by the belt until she's fit herself against every angle of his body. Only then does she move her hands to shove his suit jacket from his shoulders and yank his tie from around his neck. Her fingers shake as she slides his buttons through their holes, discarding the white shirt that's as much a part of him as breathing.

She's careless when she discards it though – granted there's a split second where she pictures it on the floor, unwilling to look away from him and the thrill is almost more arousing than his mouth and his hands – already brushing her fingers through his chest hair. He's no Derek Morgan, but he holds his own. He has to, as an agent. She finds herself appreciating it even more as he wraps his hands around her thighs and lifts.

He grins at her squeak, but she wraps her legs around him regardless. She uses her arms to settle against him just right, even as he stumbles to the bed. She laughs as he pitches them forward and he's surprised at how much the sound races through him. He's never been one to laugh when faced with a half-naked woman, but he finds that the happiness makes him warm. She arches against his palms against her waist, squirms when his lips trail across her stomach and moans when he finds an erogenous zone against her collarbone.

It isn't until she reaches around to undo her bra that he realizes just how one-sided all of this stripping has been. She's impatient, but he is too, and he can't quite figure out why he hasn't pulled the bra from her earlier. God, with the top half bare she's magnificent and his hands turn almost reverent as his every touch turns gentle. His fingers trail under her breasts, along the sensitive skin and almost raw nerve endings. She sparks, gasping as his fingers spread, palming a breast. Her nipple hardens right in his palm and he has to look up, to see her face, to see her eyes wide and glazed. His fingers graze over her other nipple, sliding, flicking, pressing.

She's drowning, she thinks, and wonders why the hell they didn't do this sooner. She can't say her breasts have ever been her most sensitive zone, but the way the pleasure is sliding through her system leaves her barely enough room to remember breathing, let alone anything else. Her nails dig into the skin just below his ribs and she feels his mouth between her breasts. Even though she knows what's coming next, her back arches and she lets out a moan when his mouth latches on.

He's not sure what it is about her, isn't sure if it's just so many suppressed fantasies, but he doesn't think when he touches her. His tongue swipes at her nipple, his teeth digging into flesh and he revels in the cries she releases. He drags her so far under that he can drag his tongue down her stomach and have her jeans undone before she even really realizes what's going on. God, it's been forever since anyone has taken her so far out of her mind that she loses track of what's going on.

"Hotch."

He surges up, pressing his mouth to hers again. She slides her hands down his back and off of him to push her jeans over her hips. He tangles his fingers in her underwear as her hands drag up his back to curl in his hair. She tugs and he rises, kissing her once, slow and thorough before pushing himself to his knees. He's yanking her pants down while she's unfastening his and with a few deft kicks they're both naked.

She groans when his skin presses against hers, spreading her thighs to cradle his hips. She kisses him, but he doesn't linger. He drags his mouth down her chest to her hip and she gasps as his tongue brushes against nerves so close to the surface. He does it again and she whimpers. He likes the sound so much that he doesn't let up, even applies teeth and suction until there's a bright red mark on her skin. He hadn't meant to leave any reminders, but his fingers trail over it gently when he pulls back and he can't help the triumphant possession that slides through his blood.

She's his.

Even though she isn't.

He doesn't waste time or play around after that. His fingers slip down between her thighs, sliding through damp curls. His fingers move easily against her flesh and she shudders.

"Hotch," she breathes, just loud enough for him to hear.

He grins and presses in with more purpose, applying his mouth to her thigh as he brushes his fingers over her. Her hips undulate with the motion until he twists his wrist, slipping inside. Her breath catches before one of her hands leaves his hair to press between her legs. He chokes, actually chokes as he watches her fingers and his. Her hand tightens in his hair and he glances up, just for a second, to see the pleasure and smugness on her face. Of course she's smug. He's not a teenager for God's sake, yet the sight of Emily touching herself has him frozen to the spot, watching his fingers disappear inside her even as he watches her fingers press and shift and flick. He presses his teeth into her thigh for her cheek, just enough that she definitely feels it. Her other hand threads through his hair, tightening and tugging.

Then he moves his fingers.

She keens, a long drawn out noise as his fingers slide into her again. He twists and curves them until her lower body lifts from the bed. He takes his time now, even though he can't say he's one for individual gratification. There's just something more, he thinks, when that gratification is almost simultaneous and mutual. Then again, he's not one for sex like this and here he is, with his once-subordinate beneath him, writhing and begging with her body for a release he can feel building in her. She's fluttering around his fingers now, her breath stuttering. Her eyes are closed, her face a mask of concentration and pressure. He keeps his fingers inside, stroking, pressing, until with a little hiccup, her body stiffens, every muscle pulling taut.

He's beside her when she floats down, pressed against her side, even as his fingers gently stroke her hip and stomach. She leans up. His mouth meets hers, slow and soft, a distinct difference from their heated tangle of just moments ago. She can feel every callous against her skin, wonders if she's imagining the hot way they catch on the smoothness of her own. Her hand reaches up, pressing against his cheek as they kiss. She turns into him, lifting a leg over his hip. Somewhere along the way, during her 'recovery' she imagines, he's done away with the rest of his clothing.

She's strong enough that it doesn't take much to shift on top, and her hair falls around both of them. She laughs when it gets caught in their kiss and he echoes it, threading his fingers through the tresses to keep it back. Then it's her turn, her turn to let her hands wander, to drive him up that hill of pleasure. She does it with lips, hands, teeth, tongue and not once does she touch where he aches for it. It's arousing in itself, so much so that when she reaches for protection, he's stiff against her inner thigh. She doesn't make a production of protection, and she doesn't tease him once it's on. Instead, she slides down on him, ignoring the insistent press of her hips that attempts to slow her descent.

Then he's fully seated inside and how they got there becomes so totally irrelevant. What matters now is that they are and it is glorious. She doesn't wait, not really. She shifts, undulating rather than lifting. Her head drops forward as she braces her hands on his chest, her nails digging in despite herself. She figures that a man like Hotch, he'll flip them any minute, so she drives herself up as high as she can, anticipating. She feels his hands squeeze her hips, feels him lift with every push of her hips.

"Emily. Come on."

She whimpers because his voice is deep, raspy, and slides right through her. Her head falls forward, hair obscuring her vision, but it doesn't matter. Her eyes are closed tight, sensation after sensation firing along her nerve endings. She can smell him, feel him and when one of his hands tangles in her hair to yank her down to his mouth, taste him too. She makes a desperate sound in her throat and he presses against her lower back, curving her spine. She gasps as he reaches deeper, presses just right inside her and he grins into their kiss. She has to break it for air, resting her forehead against his while she catches her breath as best she can.

"Let go, Emily. Come on," he whispers, tilting his head to catch her cheek, the side of her nose, her ears. She feels it building and building and building. She's teetering on the edge she can feel it, then he yanks her down, hard. He presses just right, inside her and on her and she flies apart.

When she comes back to herself – again and that's a thrill on it's own – he's flipped them. She barks out a laugh, then reaches up to cup his face, to smooth her thumb over those gorgeous high cheekbones. "Your turn."

He nods, and threads his fingers through her hair. It tugs, but she's languishing in pleasure, pushing him higher, and higher with her mouth on his neck and collarbones. Her hands slide down his back and grip his ass, but it takes her teeth on his ear to send him flying over the edge. Her hands gentle on his back, smoothing rather than caressing. His head falls to her pillow and she can't even say she cares that his weight is pushing her into the mattress. It feels good and she turns her head to bury her nose in his neck.

When his breath normalizes, his hands squeeze the back of her neck and she knows what's coming next.

"I should go."

"Yeah." She doesn't bother to argue. She knows it's true. He should go, go home, get Jack, all of that.

"It's a sleepover."

Emily blinks. It takes her very sated brain a moment to make the connection.

Jack's at a sleepover.

He has no responsibilities at home.

She looks up at him, hoping that there isn't a whole bunch of emotion written all over her face. She feels like since Doyle she's started to suck at keeping things inside. "I hate hotel rooms."

He presses his lips to her forehead gently. "Okay."

He's gone when she wakes the next morning, not that she's surprised. There's no evidence of him there and she finds herself curling up tighter in the blankets. She's happy, content even with what happened, but there's a lingering cold loneliness that's also settled in her bones. It takes her ten minutes to drag herself from bed. She checks her phone first, smiling at the departing messages from Garcia, JJ, even Reid, Morgan and Rossi.

Nothing from Hotch.

She allows herself to acknowledge a brief moment of disappointment before she gathers her things. She's reaching for the phone to call for a cab to the airport when she spies the note on the nearby hotel paper.

Emily,
I miss you too.

In a fit of sentimentality, she folds it up and packs it safely in her suitcase.

And if, in the coming weeks, she pulls it out more than she'd like to admit, well, only Sergio will know.

I… don't know how I feel about this. It's been itching at me and I've been picking at it, so I'm sorry if it feels disjointed or if there's something off about it. Same with mistakes. All mine.

Thanks for reading!