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In the center of things
between the pressing of the window and air
— a small space —
there is a meeting that defines
nothing, everything.
— from Windows, by Rachel Sherwood
Emily finds him where she normally does these days: in front of her large picture window overlooking the National Mall. Fresh out of WITSEC, he’s drawn to the unabashed display. She’s not surprised; the position above the sprawl of the city is a particular brand of intoxicating. There’s a smallness and anonymity, yes, but power too, and the possibility of being seen feels like reclamation rather than risk.
They’ve had more than a few conversations in front of this window in the week since his return: about Jack and Stephen and Peter, about martyrdom and misplaced guilt and perceived debts that don’t need to be repaid. It’s intimate almost immediately. The first evening, he coaxes her through the sobs and panic that bubble up at her recollection of how real it had all felt: the paralyzation, the scalpel to her eye, the amphetamines to stop her heart. They’ve simply been through too much to not be vulnerable and open now, so after the dam of trauma breaks, most days end with them losing track of time on her couch or on cushions on the floor, burning through bottles of wine and talking about everything and nothing before parting for bed, each pretending not to notice the other’s longing glance before rounding their respective corners.
“Hey, you.”
Hotch smiles lazily at her as she slinks up beside him, close just for the sake of being close. “Hey.”
“Jack asleep?”
He thinks of his sweet and remarkable son, safe in Emily’s guest room which she’s retrofitted just the way he likes, and hums his assent. “He was wiped. I think touring those condos and row houses took it out of him.”
“I told you there’s no rush,” she says with a good-natured huff. “I have the space, the location is central, and I get the benefit of having an excellent conversationalist at home.”
“I didn’t think my topics of discussion were that interesting, but—”
“I was talking about Jack,” she quips, and he snorts in response. Because that’s the other thing about their conversations; they’re like this, too, light and easy and a little flirty. There’s always been a tiny thread of it shimmering just under the surface, he knows. But now, there’s nothing keeping it down, no reason not to unearth it.
“Besides,” her voice cuts in again, and she’s thinking about all the time he spent confined to the shadows, figurative and literal, “I think you’re going to have a hard time giving up that view.”
“It won’t be easy,” he agrees, but he’s looking at her when he answers—that red tank he’s quickly grown to love, thin gray sweatpants well-worn in all the best places. It is such a treat to see her like this, at her most casual and unguarded. Soft and imperfect and in arm’s reach.
“Quite the contrast, huh?” she asks once the pink of her blush has faded from her cheeks.
He chuckles. “Profiling me, Prentiss?”
“Perhaps.”
“Yes,” he says eventually. You’re free, he reminds himself as he studies the horizon, and he lets triumph rather than terror wash over him. “A very good contrast. It makes me feel in control again.” She hums happily at that, the elision of him and control sending a swell of warmth through her. “I can’t thank you enough for letting us stay here.”
“You thank me every day,” she admonishes. “It’s my pleasure, Hotch.”
The thought rises quickly: I want a lot more to do with your pleasure. Before he can tamp down the impulse like he has for ten whole years, he leans into it instead, feather-light fingers coming up to her cheek to trace where her bruises have mercifully begun to fade. His hand trails from her face down the length of her arm, slowly so as to give her the chance to pull away. When he reaches her upturned palm, he draws a haphazard swirl there, the gesture simultaneously tender and electrifying.
“I like thanking you,” he says simply.
Her breath hitches as their eyes meet, twin gazes dark and deep. Suddenly, she’s acutely aware of their proximity, his breath fanning hot against her collarbone. She catches his hand, her fingers firm against his wrist. “Yeah?” she asks, her voice already wrecked.
His nose brushes against her cheek. “Yeah.”
She turns her head to capture his waiting mouth with hers.
He is all over her in a heartbeat, crowding her up against the large window and kissing her like she is going to disappear any second. Given their respective pasts in hiding, it is not an impossibility.
But they’re not thinking of Scratch or Doyle anymore. No, they’re finally here after a decade of foreplay and there’s only this: his lips on hers and their hands everywhere, the ridge of her hip, the wall of his chest, between her shoulder blades, tangled in his hair.
He pulls a soft whine from her when he slips a hand under her tank and splays his fingers wide against the muscles of her abdomen, feeling them skip under his palm. He just holds her there for a long while, savoring this moment—this woman, breathtaking and brave—then he draws the garment over her head. She shivers with a dizzying combination of arousal and chill as her bare back hits the glass of the window, and she makes quick work of his clothing in return.
“Bedroom,” she murmurs when his jeans hit the floor with a muted thud and his fingers find the waistband of her sweatpants.
“No. Here.”
Heat dances down her spine at his words. She knows that voice, had obeyed it in the field for five heady years and had wanted to obey or disobey it in the bedroom for just as long. “What about Jack?” she barely remembers to ask.
He spins her in his arms so that she is looking out at D.C. at night. They really shouldn’t—their backs will not be happy in the morning—but she’s admittedly grateful for his edict because she’d rather die than leave his embrace to move to another room now.
He is hot and heavy between her legs and he can’t help but rock forward once, twice, against the warmth of her. She chases the friction, canting her body back, but he doesn’t give; instead, he hooks a finger in her underwear and draws the lace down her body slowly, infuriatingly so, watching with sharp, blazing eyes as she steps impatiently out of them.
“Can you keep quiet?” Hotch asks in return, his voice a low thrum. One hand lines him up to her entrance; his other covers her mouth at her answered insistence as he fills her.
At the join of them, Emily’s head falls back against his shoulder. God, how had they ever managed to wait this long? The drive of his hips is perfect, almost too good, and when the hand that isn’t over her mouth maneuvers around and down to sweep languid circles across her clit, her knees buckle. She wants the feeling to last forever.
Deftly, she sucks one of his fingers into her mouth and he breaks his rhythm instantly, cursing as he slips out of her. She breathes out a laugh against his hand, proud of herself, but her laugh quickly morphs into a moan when he presses back into her, exercising every ounce of his legendary restraint as he prolongs the slide in as long as possible.
“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this? Not just this,” he snaps his hips forward, resuming his delicious rhythm, “but this.” He tugs on her hair to pull her gaze up to the skyline then, the city laid bare before him, just like her. Reflected in the glass, she can see him fucking her and the image has her close in a heartbeat.
“Please,” she pants, already unspooling.
“Almost,” he groans against the skin of her neck. “Want to come with you.”
“Aaron, I’m so close—”
“With me, Emily.”
He remembers to move his hand back over her mouth just in time.