fic post: we who elude restoration (Hotch/Prentiss)
Title: we who elude restoration
Characters: Emily Prentiss, Aaron Hotchner
Rating: pg-13
Summary: They’ve got similarities now that no one should have.
Author’s Note: word count - 1,095. Spoilers Lauren (6x18) through season 7.
It starts as her coming to his apartment late at night, after Jack’s in bed, under the guise of checking up on him. Making sure everything’s okay with Jack and the team isn’t giving him grief about the decision he made, about keeping her secret.
He lets her think that’s all he thinks it is. They both know it’s not.
It was only natural that focus would shift to her. Sharing pieces of what she dealt with during her time away, the terror, the loneliness.
He almost doesn’t have to ask how she’s feeling because he knows.
He knows what it’s like to be hunted - the desperation of wanting a resolution so badly that that you’ll even take an unfavorable one. He’s past all that now. But living that - having been there, makes it so much harder to watch a member of his family struggle through the same thing.
And yet - he knows the thing she wants more than anything right now - what she needs, is to feel strong. She needs to feel in control of her life so this event, this trauma, isn’t the thing that defines her.
He knows because that’s what got him though.
- -
She’s doing fine at work. Excelling even. She’s still quite often the one to provide a missing piece to their profile and crack the case.
He doesn’t hover because she deserves better than that, but he knows her mannerisms well enough to sense a discrepancy.
A slight waver in the typically smooth tone of her voice while talking down an unsub.
A hitch in her breath at the sight of a victim.
It’s hard not to notice when it’s completely different than what he’s used to from her.
But it’s not affecting her job and he doesn’t want to push her so he lets it go. That’s not to say he’s not cataloging these events for future reference - counting the frequency with which they occur. He is.
Not because he doesn’t trust her. But because he knows what it’s like to be working when you’re on the verge of a break. He went through that alone. That was his choice.
No way in hell she’s going to do the same.
- -
He gives her an outlet for what she’s feeling. She doesn’t share much. Small pieces at a time, details, things that happened during her time in Europe.
It’s not a lot but just it’s a feat just to get her to address it at all with any seriousness. They both know she can’t hold it all in. So this is how it works.
And he knows she needs it, despite her incessant need to take care of everyone else before herself. Just like he needs to be the one to bear the brunt of the anger and repercussions of his decision to keep news of her survival from the team.
So she settles into the soft recesses of his sofa. Some nights there’s drinks - beer or scotch. More often there’s nothing but the two of them seated close, thighs pressed together. His fingers intertwined with hers, something else for her to focus on rather than the impulse to pick at her nails.
Some nights before she’ll start talking he wraps his hands around both hers gently. A signal. There is no judgement here. No shame. Only release.
- -
They’ve got similarities now that no one should have. Scars on abdomens - not quite a matching set.
The knowledge of what it’s like to be the fixation of a psychopath.
Losing the things (people) you hold most dear.
All things no person would ever lay a claim to. All things that are forever woven into each of them in the most intimate way.
- -
He watches her as she peels off her shirt - some cotton thing, maroon - and drops it at their feet. He tries not to think about how he’s minutes away from sleeping with a member of his team. They are so much more than that. And this is about more than pure sex.
It’s about reclaiming something - taking control.
Hotch notices the scar on her stomach - the brand on her chest. He knew they’d be there, he read the medical report. Her fake autopsy form, the one to team was given access to.
They’re a part of her now, a map. A visual representation of the places she’s been and the evils she’s fought - and defeated. A testament to her strength.
Funny how he’s thinking of her strength at the exact moment she pushes him hard down onto the couch. She straddles his thighs, and makes her way from his jawline to his neck with small bites.
Catching her before her hands make their way to the buttons of his dress shirt, He lifts her chin, and her eyes meet his. Kissing her lips softly, as he breaks away he whispers, “It will get easier. Eventually, it does.”
This time she initiates the kiss, but it’s frenzied- heated. He lets her set the pace from now on.
He’s the only person besides herself that knows how badly she needs it.
- -
He thinks it a slippery slope they’re on. Treading the waters from lover to counsellor - sometimes both at the same time.
But to acknowledge that means to admit this thing they have is wrong, and he can’t stomach that.
Whatever they are, whatever this between them is, he knows they understand each other on the most visceral, intimate level.
He’s not idealistic enough to say that they are the only people who can understand what the other has been through, but sometimes it feels that way. And even though his scars are less noticeable than they were a year ago - or even a month ago - he’d be lying if he said their rituals weren’t beneficial to him. That she wasn’t simultaneously, while working through her demons, helping exercise what remains of his.
He thinks it’s funny how it wasn’t supposed to be this way. He knows she doesn’t need taking care of, but he wanted to make sure she didn’t have to face the aftermath of this alone. He’s seen the toll that takes and he doesn’t ever care to witness it again.
He anticipated many things. Symbiosis was one thing he did not.
But if he’d really thought about it - thought about her - he’d know. Prentiss is not one to take without giving back. Normally she’s not one to take at all.
Characters: Emily Prentiss, Aaron Hotchner
Rating: pg-13
Summary: They’ve got similarities now that no one should have.
Author’s Note: word count - 1,095. Spoilers Lauren (6x18) through season 7.
It starts as her coming to his apartment late at night, after Jack’s in bed, under the guise of checking up on him. Making sure everything’s okay with Jack and the team isn’t giving him grief about the decision he made, about keeping her secret.
He lets her think that’s all he thinks it is. They both know it’s not.
It was only natural that focus would shift to her. Sharing pieces of what she dealt with during her time away, the terror, the loneliness.
He almost doesn’t have to ask how she’s feeling because he knows.
He knows what it’s like to be hunted - the desperation of wanting a resolution so badly that that you’ll even take an unfavorable one. He’s past all that now. But living that - having been there, makes it so much harder to watch a member of his family struggle through the same thing.
And yet - he knows the thing she wants more than anything right now - what she needs, is to feel strong. She needs to feel in control of her life so this event, this trauma, isn’t the thing that defines her.
He knows because that’s what got him though.
- -
She’s doing fine at work. Excelling even. She’s still quite often the one to provide a missing piece to their profile and crack the case.
He doesn’t hover because she deserves better than that, but he knows her mannerisms well enough to sense a discrepancy.
A slight waver in the typically smooth tone of her voice while talking down an unsub.
A hitch in her breath at the sight of a victim.
It’s hard not to notice when it’s completely different than what he’s used to from her.
But it’s not affecting her job and he doesn’t want to push her so he lets it go. That’s not to say he’s not cataloging these events for future reference - counting the frequency with which they occur. He is.
Not because he doesn’t trust her. But because he knows what it’s like to be working when you’re on the verge of a break. He went through that alone. That was his choice.
No way in hell she’s going to do the same.
- -
He gives her an outlet for what she’s feeling. She doesn’t share much. Small pieces at a time, details, things that happened during her time in Europe.
It’s not a lot but just it’s a feat just to get her to address it at all with any seriousness. They both know she can’t hold it all in. So this is how it works.
And he knows she needs it, despite her incessant need to take care of everyone else before herself. Just like he needs to be the one to bear the brunt of the anger and repercussions of his decision to keep news of her survival from the team.
So she settles into the soft recesses of his sofa. Some nights there’s drinks - beer or scotch. More often there’s nothing but the two of them seated close, thighs pressed together. His fingers intertwined with hers, something else for her to focus on rather than the impulse to pick at her nails.
Some nights before she’ll start talking he wraps his hands around both hers gently. A signal. There is no judgement here. No shame. Only release.
- -
They’ve got similarities now that no one should have. Scars on abdomens - not quite a matching set.
The knowledge of what it’s like to be the fixation of a psychopath.
Losing the things (people) you hold most dear.
All things no person would ever lay a claim to. All things that are forever woven into each of them in the most intimate way.
- -
He watches her as she peels off her shirt - some cotton thing, maroon - and drops it at their feet. He tries not to think about how he’s minutes away from sleeping with a member of his team. They are so much more than that. And this is about more than pure sex.
It’s about reclaiming something - taking control.
Hotch notices the scar on her stomach - the brand on her chest. He knew they’d be there, he read the medical report. Her fake autopsy form, the one to team was given access to.
They’re a part of her now, a map. A visual representation of the places she’s been and the evils she’s fought - and defeated. A testament to her strength.
Funny how he’s thinking of her strength at the exact moment she pushes him hard down onto the couch. She straddles his thighs, and makes her way from his jawline to his neck with small bites.
Catching her before her hands make their way to the buttons of his dress shirt, He lifts her chin, and her eyes meet his. Kissing her lips softly, as he breaks away he whispers, “It will get easier. Eventually, it does.”
This time she initiates the kiss, but it’s frenzied- heated. He lets her set the pace from now on.
He’s the only person besides herself that knows how badly she needs it.
- -
He thinks it a slippery slope they’re on. Treading the waters from lover to counsellor - sometimes both at the same time.
But to acknowledge that means to admit this thing they have is wrong, and he can’t stomach that.
Whatever they are, whatever this between them is, he knows they understand each other on the most visceral, intimate level.
He’s not idealistic enough to say that they are the only people who can understand what the other has been through, but sometimes it feels that way. And even though his scars are less noticeable than they were a year ago - or even a month ago - he’d be lying if he said their rituals weren’t beneficial to him. That she wasn’t simultaneously, while working through her demons, helping exercise what remains of his.
He thinks it’s funny how it wasn’t supposed to be this way. He knows she doesn’t need taking care of, but he wanted to make sure she didn’t have to face the aftermath of this alone. He’s seen the toll that takes and he doesn’t ever care to witness it again.
He anticipated many things. Symbiosis was one thing he did not.
But if he’d really thought about it - thought about her - he’d know. Prentiss is not one to take without giving back. Normally she’s not one to take at all.