Chapter Text
Her soulmate's identity isn't exactly classified. It's not some whisper of a clue or cosmic mystery. No, she knows it—hell, she lives it. She's had late-night takeout with it, dragged it out for whiskey after terrible cases, and spent seven years stuck in a game of emotional dodgeball with it. The reality of him has woven itself into the threads of her existence. And yet, for all the shared glances, long silences, and glimmering near-moments between them, he's still just out of reach. Always just one step away—married, then divorced, then drowning in grief, then slowly clawing his way out of it. Emotional acrobatics around her, but never for her.
It's not like the team doesn't know. They all know. Anyone with two eyes and half a brain picks up on it in five minutes or less. She stopped caring about their side-glances a long time ago. They show up, do the job, sidestep the elephant in the room like professionals, and let everything else rot in the spaces between.
And it's fine. Really.
Honestly, it could be worse. Most people with soulmates get stuck dealing with physical distance, and that issue. Hotch is always right there—within arm's reach, in every briefing, on every flight back from a case, in every shared silence when words aren't enough. They don't do distance. Not physically, anyway. He's her shadow, her backup, the solid wall at her back when everything else falls apart.
And she's all in too. Every holiday, every goddamn weekend, every birthday that shouldn't matter but somehow does. She's in it for the long haul. Even when that means sitting across from him, watching him piece his life back together while she plays it cool. Even if it's just to step in to pick up Jack from school when Hotch can't, treating the kid to ice cream because, what the hell, she's great at this aunt gig.
Hotch has people—people that love him. People that look after him. He's got a kid who adores him and a support system that extends all the way to Haley's family. Emily's glad for that. Honestly, she is. He deserves that kind of care. It's not jealousy exactly, but—okay, maybe there's a flicker of envy tucked somewhere deep. Because everything she's ever needed is tied up in this unit, in the people she works with, and trying to build something outside of it feels like stepping off a cliff into thin air.
But she's trying. Even if it fucking stings sometimes.
Like now.
She catches something at the end of Hotch's charity race.
Beth—that's her name, a real proper girlfriend's name—leaning in, planting a kiss on Hotch's mouth while his skin is still slick with sweat, like something out of a rom-com Emily never asked to witness. It's a punch to the ribs, sharp and clean. And for a second, she feels herself unraveling, the ache sitting heavy and low in her chest.
But then Jack is there, grinning up at them, holding a homemade sign.
She can't help but smile because that's what you do when you love someone. You put on a brave face, extend a polite hand to the woman now holding pieces of your heart, and you tell yourself it's enough. "Beth, right?" Her handshake is steady, her grin shaky. "Nice to meet you."
Beth helped Jack with the sign. Of course, she did. Cute, isn't it?
How long has this been a thing? How long have they been them?
"Think we're done here," Emily says through clenched teeth, throwing a glance at Reid, who's been standing awkwardly to the side like a kid caught between two feuding parents. No need to spell it out—Bambi-eyed genius that he is, Reid already knows. He nods with a little half-hearted wave in Hotch's direction. "You drive," Emily adds as she turns on her heel, her boots heavy against grass.
Reid touches her arm as they reach the car. "You okay?"
Goddammit, Reid. The question is like poking a bruise. Tight lungs, a steel knot in her chest—she yanks open the door and slams herself into the passenger seat, fumbling with the seatbelt. "Don't ask, Reid. Just—don't." She's not going to fall apart here, not now.
"I don't know if I'm comfortable driving your car," he mutters, glancing nervously at the steering wheel.
"Reid, you have to do this. I trust you." She's already digging through her purse for the key. "I'm in no condition to drive, and—"
The sharp rap of knuckles against the glass jerks her heart into her throat.
She turns. Hotch. Standing at the window.
Her pulse pounds against her ribs, frantic and wild. "Oh my God, I hate him," she whispers to Reid, the words a desperate plea.
"To be fair, he's a better driver than I am," Reid offers, unhelpfully.
"Reid, no matter what happens, don't tell him you don't want to drive, okay?"
But Reid, bless his soul, rolls down the window with a nervous little smile and delivers the death blow: "Emily's having a panic attack. And I don't want to drive."
Cold sweat breaks out across her skin, and nausea twists in her stomach. But she keeps her eyes locked on the dashboard, because looking at Hotch now feels like teetering on the edge of something she isn't ready for.
Hotch's voice is too calm, low—a storm that hasn't hit yet. "Can you step out for a minute, Reid? I need to talk to her."
Reid hesitates for half a second before obeying, casting her a sympathetic glance as he slips out of the car. Number one fan, that's what Reid is. Always doing what Hotch says, even if it means leaving her alone to drown in whatever this is.
And now it's just her and Hotch in the cramped space of the car, the air thick enough to choke on.
"Not even a warning," she mutters, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead, "You could've told me."
Hotch's brow furrows, the faintest trace of concern flickering across his face. "I'm sorry."
What she doesn't expect is the soft touch—his fingers brushing back a strand of hair from her face, his thumb gently swiping away the tears she didn't even realize were falling. Wait—tears? When did that start?
Physical touch with Hotch has always been something they don't do. It's a line they don't cross, an unspoken rule carved into every interaction between them. They brush fingers occasionally—accidentally—and once, two years ago, she wiped ketchup off his chin during an after-case dinner. But this?
This is different.
It's intentional. It's him. His hand stays near her face, and even when he hesitates, starting to pull away, her face follows the touch like a little magnet ball of need. The sigh that escapes her feels like letting go of every piece of tension she's been holding together for years.
"I can't do this to you, Emily," he says, and it's filled with something she can't quite name. "I take better care of you this way. You're too important to risk."
She lets out a sharp, breathless laugh—half-delirious from the whiplash of going from heartbreak to heaven in the space of a moment. "That's the dumbest thing you've ever said."
His thumb brushes lightly along the side of her neck, tracing a line down her throat—and her body responds faster than her brain. A flush of heat spreads through her, embarrassing and undeniable. Her lips part without permission, and—God help her—her knees press tightly together.
He pulls back just slightly. "Feeling better yet?"
And of course, she is. Obviously. But all she can do is blink, her brain short-circuiting.
"You won't even give this a chance," she whispers, more to herself than to him.
"I tried," he says, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. "This won't—"
His hand slips from her face, retreating to the steering wheel, and it feels like the loss of something vital.
"Aren't you happy with how things are?"
Her mouth opens, then closes, words stuck in her throat. The rejection feels like a sucker punch, worse than the ache she just barely escaped. "Get out of my car," she whispers, every syllable quivering.
For a moment, Hotch doesn't move.
Then he nods once and steps out, closing the door behind him with the softest click.
-
Beth starts showing up at the office—first once, then twice, then enough times that Emily feels like she's stuck in a painfully predictable sitcom rerun. Beth, with her bright smile, the kind of person who knows exactly when to drop a hand on someone's arm or laugh at just the right decibel. She likes picking Hotch up directly from the office, which means Emily—whose desk happens to be front and center—gets the VIP seat to every single exit.
It's just... irritating in the way that a persistent mosquito buzzing around your head at night is irritating. Not unbearable. Just impossible to ignore. Especially because every glance, every touch between Hotch and Beth, feels like a brick being casually added to the emotional wall she's spent years trying not to build.
She handles it in the healthiest way possible: by giving Hotch the silent treatment. Not that he notices. Or maybe he does—he's observant enough to clock a criminal's microexpression in the span of a second, after all—but if he does notice, he doesn't comment. Either way, Emily plays the long game. Paperwork becomes her closest friend, her eyes glued to case files she pretends are more interesting than the warm, domestic little scene playing out in front of her.
Weeks pass, and then, one day, Emily notices something—Beth isn't around as often anymore. Or... at all.
There are no more cheerful arrivals at the end of the day. No more phone calls that leave Hotch closing his office door for privacy. At first, she thinks it's just a coincidence—maybe Beth's been busy. But as the days turn into weeks, it becomes clear: Beth isn't busy. Beth's gone.
Emily doesn't ask. She's learned the hard way that asking leads to conversations she's not emotionally prepared to have. And anyway, things with Hotch are... complicated. Soulmates don't always make things easier, apparently. Sometimes they just make everything harder.
Then Jack shows up at the office one afternoon, and suddenly, Emily sees her chance to dig for information—with all the subtlety of a cat stalking a laser pointer.
"Wanna draw on my desk?" she asks, sliding him a box of chalk she keeps around just for moments like these. (Not that she's trying to bribe him, obviously—it's just... strategic bonding.) Jack's eyes light up, and he climbs onto the corner of her desk, swinging his legs and immediately getting to work, sketching what looks like a lopsided car but could also be a dinosaur, or possibly a spaceship.
Emily leans back in her chair, watching him for a moment before casually dropping the bait. "So... what happened to your Aunt Beth?"
Jack doesn't look up, too focused on his masterpiece to care about subtle interrogations. "I dunno," he mumbles around the straw of his apple juice carton, slurping loudly.
"Do you want me to ask Daddy?" he offers after a beat, the picture of unbothered childhood innocence.
Emily bites back a sigh, shaking her head. "Nah, that's okay." She lets herself sink a little deeper into her chair, a quiet sense of whatever settling in. No more Beth. Oh. Okay.
Jack keeps doodling, blissfully unaware of the emotional minefield Emily's been navigating for what feels like forever. And just as she's about to change the subject, thinking the moment has passed, Jack drops a bombshell that nearly makes her choke on her own spit.
"Auntie Em," he says, completely serious, "I think I found my soulmate. At school."
Emily freezes, her brain grinding to a halt. "What?"
Jack doesn't even glance up, this is just another Tuesday. "At school," he repeats, like that clears everything up.
Emily blinks. "Uh... wow. That's... fast."
Jack nods sagely, still drawing. "She gave me the sparkly blue crayon. That's my favorite color."
"Well," Emily says slowly, fighting to keep a straight face, "that does sound pretty serious."
Jack hums in agreement, switching to a green chalk now. "We shared chips too. Daddy says sharing's important."
Emily presses her lips together, trying not to laugh. "Yeah, that's practically a legally binding agreement."
Jack doesn't catch the joke, too busy adding what looks like wings to his drawing. "I think I'll marry her. But I'm not sure yet. She doesn't like soccer." He frowns slightly, as if this is a deeply troubling revelation.
Emily smirks, leaning closer like they're two conspirators sharing a secret. "Well, you've got time to figure it out, buddy."
Jack nods, satisfied with that answer. "Yeah. I'll give it a week."
Emily chuckles under her breath, her heart unexpectedly light.
-
The silent treatment survives all the way to Vegas. If it were an Olympic event, Emily's pretty sure she'd have earned gold by now. It sticks with them through the briefing, the flights, and the stale airport coffee. It sits between them in the rental car, soaking up the empty conversations like a sponge—yes, the case is awful, yes, they're going to do their best, no, she still won't talk to him about Beth or what the hell is going on in her head.
The case itself is ugly: a missing mother and two children, found days later in an attic with nothing but shoes on. Emily wants to throw up the second they get to the scene, and not just in the metaphorical sense. She makes it as far as the front lawn before she has to duck behind a bush and—yeah, that's definitely her breakfast.
The worst part is that doesn't help. It never does. The nausea's still there, clinging to her insides like static. She stands there for a moment, breathing through her mouth, trying to pull herself together.
The second-worst part is that Hotch is right there.
He doesn't say anything at first, just hovers—close enough that she can feel him. Just... there. It's infuriating and comforting at the same time, and she doesn't have the energy to decide which one annoys her more.
Emily drags the back of her hand across her mouth, wiping away what's left of her dignity, and forces herself upright. Her hands are still trembling. She wraps both hands around the plastic handle of the water cup, but it's a losing battle. The harder she tries to hold steady, the more it rattles.
Before she can snap and toss the damn thing across the lawn, Hotch's hand comes in—strong, steady, nice. He steps in behind her without a word, slipping his fingers around the cup, holding it closer to her lips.
Emily lets out a breath, too tired to argue. She lets go. Just for a second. She lets him take it off her hands and takes a slow sip, the water cool and grounding as it slides down her throat.
"How much sleep did you get last night?" he asks, his voice low against her ear. It's soft, unintrusive—like a breeze that makes the hair at her temple stir. It's intimate in the way that only they can be without crossing a line, the kind of intimacy built on years of knowing someone's cracks and pretending not to see them.
The way his breath brushes against her skin makes her head swim just enough to make her feel untethered. Not quite dizzy—just a little... off-kilter. It's the same way she always feels when she's too close to him. As if, without even trying, Hotch could tip her world off its axis with the smallest shift.
She steadies herself with another sip before tilting her head, leaning into that familiar blend of tension and exhaustion. "Not enough," she admits, setting the cup down on the nearest table before the conversation has a chance to go anywhere it shouldn't. "I'm fine. Morgan and I are going to talk to the principal at the kids' school."
Hotch doesn't budge, and the space between them shrinks into nothing.
There's a moment—a beat too long—where she feels his gaze lingering, heavier than usual. Not quite concerned, not quite curious. Just watchful.
"I said I'm fine," she says, softer this time, but firm enough to suggest that she's drawing a line.
Hotch doesn't argue. He just steps back, giving her the space she asked for, even if it's not the space she really wants.
Emily nods toward the car where Morgan's waiting. "I'll let you know what we find," she adds.
Hotch nods once, the corners of his mouth tugging down in that familiar way that means he heard every word she didn't say.
-
"You guys are talking again, I see," Morgan says, leaning back against the seat like someone who's not worried about getting his ass kicked before noon. The man practically invented smug. And trusting a profiler not to profile is like handing a toddler candy and expecting it to remain uneaten. A fantasy, at best.
Emily glances at him out of the corner of her eye, one hand on the wheel as Hotch disappears inside the house, already lost in another phone call.
She drags her gaze back to the windshield and starts the car, the engine rumbling under her palms. "Talking about it isn't on my list of things to do this morning," she says, her mouth curling into a tight, uncomfortable smile.
Morgan, of course, isn't deterred. "You know," he begins, ever the deliverer of inconvenient truths, "he broke up with his girlfriend a few weeks ago."
Her hands tighten on the wheel. "I don't care."
And she doesn't. She doesn't care. She's made a very thorough mental list of things she does care about, and Aaron Hotchner's romantic misadventures are not on it. Absolutely not.
Morgan hums knowingly in that you're-not-fooling-anyone way that makes her want to punch the dashboard. "He's planning on quitting the job."
Emily's foot slips off the brake, and for a second, the car lurches forward before she slams it back into park. Her throat tightens, and she tries to swallow around it, but the lump stays put, thick and unyielding. She flicks off the ignition, gripping the key so hard it digs into her palm. "What," she croaks, then clears her throat as if that'll smooth out the jagged edges. "Why do you think that?"
Morgan shrugs, far too nonchalant for her liking. "Saw an Italian dictionary on his desk last week."
Emily blinks. "A what?"
"An Italian dictionary."
She leans her forehead against the steering wheel with a low, guttural groan that somehow manages to communicate at least three different languages she's fluent in—each one conveying a slightly more creative variation of you've got to be kidding me.
Okay, no. Focus. She can't go down that road right now. This is a job.
She straightens up, takes a breath, and blows it out through pursed lips.