FIC POST
Title: 10 Seconds
Author: charleswhatnow
Category: Hurt/Comfort/Angst
Characters: Aaron Hotchner, Emily Prentiss
Pairing: Hotch/Prentiss
Rating: Mature
Summary: They say true emotion only lasts a few seconds. When you feel yourself losing control count to ten and then you have the choice whether to react emotionally or logically to a stimulus. Logic has always been her friend.
Author’s Note: Timeline - early season 6
It's nearly 2:30 in the morning when the case wraps. Unsub booked, confessed and jailed. She sits alone in her hotel room, thoughts glancing over the events of the day. She feels the urge to run a bath. To use the hot water as a means of removing the filth that comes with proximity to the scum she faces on a daily basis. Although she is generally hesitant to bathe in a hotel tub, she decides on this occasion it's worth it. Quickly she strips and turns the water on - a little too hot - and relishes the initial twinge of pain as she lowers herself into the steaming tub. She wouldn't call herself a masochist, but in this line of work, she's no stranger to pain. And sometimes, when she feels utterly alone, its presence brings more comfort than she cares to admit.
She should feel more. Concern for the human condition. Satisfaction that the team was able to apprehend the Unsub before he killed another woman. Relief that at least that monster is behind bars. She doesn't. There is nothing more than the general and vague sense of a job well done. It's not truly a victory. She tries not to dwell on the knowledge that five women were raped and dismembered and it doesn't even rank as a remarkable case. Not by BAU standards. That's the problem she thinks, It's fucked up. And by proxy, she's fucked up.
She remembers a time when she did her job because she loved it. She was good at it. She's still damn good, but now, she's not sure she's capable of doing anything else. If she was, this is a life she would have abandoned as soon as she stopped flinching at the lives, the families torn apart. Yet, she continues. Every fucking day. Because if she doesn't have this - this job - there is nothing else. After committing yourself to something so dark, so intertwined with lingering evil, everything else seems trivial.
After an hour of soaking, trying to quiet her active mind, the water has turned tepid and she lifts her tired body out of the water. Toweling off the moisture from her pale skin she thinks about sleep, and how tonight it won't come easy. She throws on a pair of lounge pants and a tank, and hopes that reading will prove enough of a distraction.
"Damn." She mutters, realizing she's already finished the only novel in her go bag on the plane ride here. She normally packs two, just in case. Figures.
Digging through her bag, she pulls out tennis shoes, slides them on, and grabs her wallet and room key. The paper will have to do, she decides. She noticed the machines out front when they checked in.
Making her way down the deserted hallway, past the rooms of her teammates, she notes that the sound of a TV cuts through the otherwise silent passage. The noise is coming from Hotch's room. He would be awake, she thinks.
She makes quick work of the journey to the paper box, purchases two, and returns to the 4th floor. Pausing in front of Hotch's door, listening. The TV is still on. She knocks quietly, just in case he is asleep. She hears the sound of steps approaching. The door swings open.
He appears in boxers and a white tee, clearly not expecting company and looking surprised by her presence at this hour. "Prentiss, what is it?" His face displaying a slight twinge of confusion.
"I needed a distraction." She gestures to the newspaper with a small smile. "I heard the TV and figured you must be pretty desperate for one too if you're resorting to early morning talk shows." Her eyes flit over his features, assessing his mood while passing him the extra paper.
"Thanks, it was really starting to wear on me."
"No problem." She nods, and turns to cross the hall to her room.
"Prentiss."
She stops. "Yes?" Turning around to see him leaning against the door frame.
"Why did you really knock on my door at 3:30 in the morning?"
She pauses before replying. He sees her resolve falter, if only for a minute. The calm demeanor so carefully constructed to keep her sanity intact, slips away. And he sees the defeat overcome her features. "I - just thought you could use some entertainment. Like I said." He sees the facade fall back in place.
"You don't have to do that." Speaking not in reference to her words, but to her insistence on remaining impassively unemotional.
She laughs. It's not a happy sound, it's sad, almost mournful. "I'm..I don't think I'm capable of being any other way anymore. " She's picking at her fingernails, as she breaks eye contact and gazes down at the cheap hallway carpet, her dark lashes shading her eyes from his concentrated stare. Taking solace in memorizing the patterns on the floor, if for no other reason than to save herself a moment of vulnerability under his scrutiny.
"That's not true." He paused, evaluating the weight of his words, "You're not like me."
Her head snaps up at his statement. He sees a shift behind her eyes as they take on an almost animalistic quality. "You're right, Hotch. I'm not." Her eyes are watery now, not with pure sadness. Possibly anger? He's not certain. He knows, however, he's never seen her look so detached, so dangerous. "You want to know why I'm not like you?" Her voice increasing in intensity, but not volume. She traverses the space between them as she's talking. "You come back to your hotel room, and you can't sleep. You can't sleep because you're blaming yourself for not solving the case quicker and saving those women who died because we didn't find the bastard until tonight. You turn on the TV and drink a couple glasses of scotch to numb your senses just enough to avoid becoming overwrought with the guilt you insist on bearing for this team. Just enough so next time you face us you can keep up your stoic front."
She's so close now. Close enough to feel her humid breath on his face. It's oppressive like the thick air during the summer in DC. Her eyes bore into his as she continues, "You fear letting others in on your emotions. Me, I'm just trying to convince myself that I feel nothing. Try to make myself feel empty, so I don't have to face the horror of what we see every goddamn day." She scoffed, taking in his ever constant expression. "So you're right, I'm not like you." She looks into his eyes, one more time, longer than admittedly she should and starts to turn away from him. In some sort of attempt to make it back to the safety of her room before revealing anymore of herself than she just did.
He grabs her arm, "Emily...don't." His hand on her cool skin feels unbearably hot. It's cauterizing, and when he removes it, in its place will be a scar.
She feels her face burn. "Stop. Please. It has to be like this." She grits between clenched teeth, trying to look anywhere but his face. And even though, she's so fucking angry that he's questioning her, she can't bring herself to pull her arm from his clenched hand. Doesn't he know that she's needs to convince herself that she feels nothing because it's so much easier than dealing with the ramifications of this job? She needs this. She has no other outlet, no constructive way to alleviate the pain and disappointments that recur on a daily basis. If she doesn't detach what she feels with what she does, she'll cease to function.
His grip on her arm tightens, and she looks into his eyes again. Then she sees it, if only for a second. He knows. In that moment she fucking hates the thing she's always loved the most about him - his innate understanding of her thoughts without needing to outwardly express them.
Her resolve falters. She lets down the steel walls that separate the different aspects of her life - the ones that so efficiently keep the various facets of her personality from bleeding together. A rush of pain, love, resentment, and longing crashes into her conscious mind. There's no stopping this now. There's no undoing the structural damage. Not tonight.
She doesn't take time to question it, the sudden urge to shove him back against the wall of his hotel room. So she doesn't, she just acts. She tries not to think about his muscled chest under her hands as she's pushing against him, his back hits the wall hard and before he can act she's enveloped his lips with her own. Neither party being accustomed to gentle actions, he lets her have temporary control. She desperately needs it. She needs him, and she signifies this by biting his bottom lip. Just the right amount of pressure to show her want. He tastes of vaguely of scotch, she can't get enough of the rich taste on his lips, it intensifies as he opens his mouth to deepen the kiss.
Her head feels like it's full of cotton. Blurry. She can't focus on any one sensation for more than a second without the images in her mind being replaced by an aerial view of two figures crushed against a stark hotel room wall. The battle for dominance begins as Hotch tightens his grip on her waist and rotates them 180 degrees pinning her tight against the cool plaster. She whimpers out of surprise as her back hits the wall a little too hard and for the first time since before she initiated contact looks into his eyes.
"Emily." Somewhere between a growl and a whisper. He pulls back slightly, focusing in on her features. Trying to quell his desire.
She makes an indiscernible sound as the loss of contact. Their hands still desperately seeking whatever solid ground they can find. His strong muscular back. Her soft hips. "Hotch, just..." She looks down quickly and back up. "Don't talk. Not now."
Their lips meet again. This time at an even more frantic pace. Emily pulls him closer to her, feels herself melting into the wall from the pressure of him. One hand feeling the hot skin of the back of his neck, while the other travels down his chest grabbing the hem of his shirt and lifting it. He breaks the kiss, removes his shirt fully, and with little fanfare slides his hands under hers peeling it from her sinewy form. He swallows hard as he takes in the expanse of clear, light flesh. He wants to commit this to memory, because this is the kind of thing an imagination can't do justice to. Her fair skin, almost translucent in the dim light. Full breasts, followed by a slim waist that flares out slightly before her narrow hips. Slender yet so incredibly womanly.
"Jesus, Emily." He trails off.
She gives him no time to linger as she reaches for him again, this time, her hand makes its way down the front of his boxers to grasp him firmly. She strokes him a few times, marveling at the feel of him. She pushes him backwards to the bed where he falls and she joins him after discarding her lounge pants.
Straddling his legs, she runs her hands up his firm thighs to his shorts and pulls them down uncovering his erection. No foreplay is needed tonight. For either of them. She just needs to feel someone, to share the darkness with another human so that she herself can come to terms with what they see. A release.
She moves up his body, and leans forward for another frantic kiss before reaching back and guiding him.
When he enters her she's swimming with emotion again but she pushes it away to focus on the sensation of him moving inside her. She watches his face. The pleasure displayed on it as she moves her hips at a leisurely pace. She wants to let go, feel him pounding into her repeatedly, but she desperately needs to keep some semblance of control. So she continues rolling her hips in small circles, lavishing the groans of pleasure the action elicits.
She continues to ride him, quickening the pace as his hands grab her hips and pull her down as he thrusts up. She feels the tension building within her and she can tell as she struggles to look at him through heavy eyes that he's close too. His thrusts become increasingly erratic as they move together and his short fingernails dig into her hips in some misplaced effort to prolong the sensations assaulting his senses. Looking down she takes in the sight of him lost in pure pleasure and it's enough to make her explode. Her eyes close and she cries out - something between a moan and a whimper and a quiet scream. He's never heard anything like it. Anything so intense. It cuts him deep, and before he can register what's happening he's coming inside her.
She collapses on his chest. Her almost inhumanly soft skin sticking to his own through a layer of sweat. Finally gathering enough strength to lift her head, she smiles softly at him and he can see a clarity in her eyes. He's not sure he's ever seen it before. He tries to consider what it means while she falls asleep. The answer never comes.
_____________________________________________________
As she drifts to consciousness, a strong, comforting scent helps her mind register where she is. She opens her eyes slowly, and looks at him. There's something incredibly beautiful seeing him like this. Peaceful. Content and unaware. She untangles herself from the cocoon of his arms and touches a hand to his face as she sits. Lightly she brushes back his short bangs and his eyes open slowly. She tries desperately not to smile.
"Hey." He smiles at her. She smiles back, hers tinged with sadness as she leans down to kiss him once more. This time it's familiar, and she's surprised by her own actions. The sweetness of the kiss, and the stirrings within her mind when she thinks of him.
Leaning back, she removes her hand from his face and stands. "I should go. The others will be waking soon." She pulls on her discarded clothes as he watches - tries to find adequate words for the situation. He's never done this.
Once she's dressed she turns back once more to look at him - taking him in.
"Emily. I-"
She interrupts, "Hotch. Aaron." She smiles weakly. She can't do this. Not now. "Please."
He nods. She's grateful for the out. He always knows what she needs, even if he doesn't know why she needs it.
She finally manages to break her gaze and turn away from him. Exiting into the bright hotel hallway, she's hit with the wave of intertwined emotions once again. It manifests as a heaviness in her chest. She should have never let her guard down. She knows then, this ritual of compartmentalizing is crumbling around her. There's no stopping this now. No way to fix the damaged facade. But she's damn well going to try. It's all she's ever known, and she's not letting go without a fight.
Author: charleswhatnow
Category: Hurt/Comfort/Angst
Characters: Aaron Hotchner, Emily Prentiss
Pairing: Hotch/Prentiss
Rating: Mature
Summary: They say true emotion only lasts a few seconds. When you feel yourself losing control count to ten and then you have the choice whether to react emotionally or logically to a stimulus. Logic has always been her friend.
Author’s Note: Timeline - early season 6
It's nearly 2:30 in the morning when the case wraps. Unsub booked, confessed and jailed. She sits alone in her hotel room, thoughts glancing over the events of the day. She feels the urge to run a bath. To use the hot water as a means of removing the filth that comes with proximity to the scum she faces on a daily basis. Although she is generally hesitant to bathe in a hotel tub, she decides on this occasion it's worth it. Quickly she strips and turns the water on - a little too hot - and relishes the initial twinge of pain as she lowers herself into the steaming tub. She wouldn't call herself a masochist, but in this line of work, she's no stranger to pain. And sometimes, when she feels utterly alone, its presence brings more comfort than she cares to admit.
She should feel more. Concern for the human condition. Satisfaction that the team was able to apprehend the Unsub before he killed another woman. Relief that at least that monster is behind bars. She doesn't. There is nothing more than the general and vague sense of a job well done. It's not truly a victory. She tries not to dwell on the knowledge that five women were raped and dismembered and it doesn't even rank as a remarkable case. Not by BAU standards. That's the problem she thinks, It's fucked up. And by proxy, she's fucked up.
She remembers a time when she did her job because she loved it. She was good at it. She's still damn good, but now, she's not sure she's capable of doing anything else. If she was, this is a life she would have abandoned as soon as she stopped flinching at the lives, the families torn apart. Yet, she continues. Every fucking day. Because if she doesn't have this - this job - there is nothing else. After committing yourself to something so dark, so intertwined with lingering evil, everything else seems trivial.
After an hour of soaking, trying to quiet her active mind, the water has turned tepid and she lifts her tired body out of the water. Toweling off the moisture from her pale skin she thinks about sleep, and how tonight it won't come easy. She throws on a pair of lounge pants and a tank, and hopes that reading will prove enough of a distraction.
"Damn." She mutters, realizing she's already finished the only novel in her go bag on the plane ride here. She normally packs two, just in case. Figures.
Digging through her bag, she pulls out tennis shoes, slides them on, and grabs her wallet and room key. The paper will have to do, she decides. She noticed the machines out front when they checked in.
Making her way down the deserted hallway, past the rooms of her teammates, she notes that the sound of a TV cuts through the otherwise silent passage. The noise is coming from Hotch's room. He would be awake, she thinks.
She makes quick work of the journey to the paper box, purchases two, and returns to the 4th floor. Pausing in front of Hotch's door, listening. The TV is still on. She knocks quietly, just in case he is asleep. She hears the sound of steps approaching. The door swings open.
He appears in boxers and a white tee, clearly not expecting company and looking surprised by her presence at this hour. "Prentiss, what is it?" His face displaying a slight twinge of confusion.
"I needed a distraction." She gestures to the newspaper with a small smile. "I heard the TV and figured you must be pretty desperate for one too if you're resorting to early morning talk shows." Her eyes flit over his features, assessing his mood while passing him the extra paper.
"Thanks, it was really starting to wear on me."
"No problem." She nods, and turns to cross the hall to her room.
"Prentiss."
She stops. "Yes?" Turning around to see him leaning against the door frame.
"Why did you really knock on my door at 3:30 in the morning?"
She pauses before replying. He sees her resolve falter, if only for a minute. The calm demeanor so carefully constructed to keep her sanity intact, slips away. And he sees the defeat overcome her features. "I - just thought you could use some entertainment. Like I said." He sees the facade fall back in place.
"You don't have to do that." Speaking not in reference to her words, but to her insistence on remaining impassively unemotional.
She laughs. It's not a happy sound, it's sad, almost mournful. "I'm..I don't think I'm capable of being any other way anymore. " She's picking at her fingernails, as she breaks eye contact and gazes down at the cheap hallway carpet, her dark lashes shading her eyes from his concentrated stare. Taking solace in memorizing the patterns on the floor, if for no other reason than to save herself a moment of vulnerability under his scrutiny.
"That's not true." He paused, evaluating the weight of his words, "You're not like me."
Her head snaps up at his statement. He sees a shift behind her eyes as they take on an almost animalistic quality. "You're right, Hotch. I'm not." Her eyes are watery now, not with pure sadness. Possibly anger? He's not certain. He knows, however, he's never seen her look so detached, so dangerous. "You want to know why I'm not like you?" Her voice increasing in intensity, but not volume. She traverses the space between them as she's talking. "You come back to your hotel room, and you can't sleep. You can't sleep because you're blaming yourself for not solving the case quicker and saving those women who died because we didn't find the bastard until tonight. You turn on the TV and drink a couple glasses of scotch to numb your senses just enough to avoid becoming overwrought with the guilt you insist on bearing for this team. Just enough so next time you face us you can keep up your stoic front."
She's so close now. Close enough to feel her humid breath on his face. It's oppressive like the thick air during the summer in DC. Her eyes bore into his as she continues, "You fear letting others in on your emotions. Me, I'm just trying to convince myself that I feel nothing. Try to make myself feel empty, so I don't have to face the horror of what we see every goddamn day." She scoffed, taking in his ever constant expression. "So you're right, I'm not like you." She looks into his eyes, one more time, longer than admittedly she should and starts to turn away from him. In some sort of attempt to make it back to the safety of her room before revealing anymore of herself than she just did.
He grabs her arm, "Emily...don't." His hand on her cool skin feels unbearably hot. It's cauterizing, and when he removes it, in its place will be a scar.
She feels her face burn. "Stop. Please. It has to be like this." She grits between clenched teeth, trying to look anywhere but his face. And even though, she's so fucking angry that he's questioning her, she can't bring herself to pull her arm from his clenched hand. Doesn't he know that she's needs to convince herself that she feels nothing because it's so much easier than dealing with the ramifications of this job? She needs this. She has no other outlet, no constructive way to alleviate the pain and disappointments that recur on a daily basis. If she doesn't detach what she feels with what she does, she'll cease to function.
His grip on her arm tightens, and she looks into his eyes again. Then she sees it, if only for a second. He knows. In that moment she fucking hates the thing she's always loved the most about him - his innate understanding of her thoughts without needing to outwardly express them.
Her resolve falters. She lets down the steel walls that separate the different aspects of her life - the ones that so efficiently keep the various facets of her personality from bleeding together. A rush of pain, love, resentment, and longing crashes into her conscious mind. There's no stopping this now. There's no undoing the structural damage. Not tonight.
She doesn't take time to question it, the sudden urge to shove him back against the wall of his hotel room. So she doesn't, she just acts. She tries not to think about his muscled chest under her hands as she's pushing against him, his back hits the wall hard and before he can act she's enveloped his lips with her own. Neither party being accustomed to gentle actions, he lets her have temporary control. She desperately needs it. She needs him, and she signifies this by biting his bottom lip. Just the right amount of pressure to show her want. He tastes of vaguely of scotch, she can't get enough of the rich taste on his lips, it intensifies as he opens his mouth to deepen the kiss.
Her head feels like it's full of cotton. Blurry. She can't focus on any one sensation for more than a second without the images in her mind being replaced by an aerial view of two figures crushed against a stark hotel room wall. The battle for dominance begins as Hotch tightens his grip on her waist and rotates them 180 degrees pinning her tight against the cool plaster. She whimpers out of surprise as her back hits the wall a little too hard and for the first time since before she initiated contact looks into his eyes.
"Emily." Somewhere between a growl and a whisper. He pulls back slightly, focusing in on her features. Trying to quell his desire.
She makes an indiscernible sound as the loss of contact. Their hands still desperately seeking whatever solid ground they can find. His strong muscular back. Her soft hips. "Hotch, just..." She looks down quickly and back up. "Don't talk. Not now."
Their lips meet again. This time at an even more frantic pace. Emily pulls him closer to her, feels herself melting into the wall from the pressure of him. One hand feeling the hot skin of the back of his neck, while the other travels down his chest grabbing the hem of his shirt and lifting it. He breaks the kiss, removes his shirt fully, and with little fanfare slides his hands under hers peeling it from her sinewy form. He swallows hard as he takes in the expanse of clear, light flesh. He wants to commit this to memory, because this is the kind of thing an imagination can't do justice to. Her fair skin, almost translucent in the dim light. Full breasts, followed by a slim waist that flares out slightly before her narrow hips. Slender yet so incredibly womanly.
"Jesus, Emily." He trails off.
She gives him no time to linger as she reaches for him again, this time, her hand makes its way down the front of his boxers to grasp him firmly. She strokes him a few times, marveling at the feel of him. She pushes him backwards to the bed where he falls and she joins him after discarding her lounge pants.
Straddling his legs, she runs her hands up his firm thighs to his shorts and pulls them down uncovering his erection. No foreplay is needed tonight. For either of them. She just needs to feel someone, to share the darkness with another human so that she herself can come to terms with what they see. A release.
She moves up his body, and leans forward for another frantic kiss before reaching back and guiding him.
When he enters her she's swimming with emotion again but she pushes it away to focus on the sensation of him moving inside her. She watches his face. The pleasure displayed on it as she moves her hips at a leisurely pace. She wants to let go, feel him pounding into her repeatedly, but she desperately needs to keep some semblance of control. So she continues rolling her hips in small circles, lavishing the groans of pleasure the action elicits.
She continues to ride him, quickening the pace as his hands grab her hips and pull her down as he thrusts up. She feels the tension building within her and she can tell as she struggles to look at him through heavy eyes that he's close too. His thrusts become increasingly erratic as they move together and his short fingernails dig into her hips in some misplaced effort to prolong the sensations assaulting his senses. Looking down she takes in the sight of him lost in pure pleasure and it's enough to make her explode. Her eyes close and she cries out - something between a moan and a whimper and a quiet scream. He's never heard anything like it. Anything so intense. It cuts him deep, and before he can register what's happening he's coming inside her.
She collapses on his chest. Her almost inhumanly soft skin sticking to his own through a layer of sweat. Finally gathering enough strength to lift her head, she smiles softly at him and he can see a clarity in her eyes. He's not sure he's ever seen it before. He tries to consider what it means while she falls asleep. The answer never comes.
_____________________________________________________
As she drifts to consciousness, a strong, comforting scent helps her mind register where she is. She opens her eyes slowly, and looks at him. There's something incredibly beautiful seeing him like this. Peaceful. Content and unaware. She untangles herself from the cocoon of his arms and touches a hand to his face as she sits. Lightly she brushes back his short bangs and his eyes open slowly. She tries desperately not to smile.
"Hey." He smiles at her. She smiles back, hers tinged with sadness as she leans down to kiss him once more. This time it's familiar, and she's surprised by her own actions. The sweetness of the kiss, and the stirrings within her mind when she thinks of him.
Leaning back, she removes her hand from his face and stands. "I should go. The others will be waking soon." She pulls on her discarded clothes as he watches - tries to find adequate words for the situation. He's never done this.
Once she's dressed she turns back once more to look at him - taking him in.
"Emily. I-"
She interrupts, "Hotch. Aaron." She smiles weakly. She can't do this. Not now. "Please."
He nods. She's grateful for the out. He always knows what she needs, even if he doesn't know why she needs it.
She finally manages to break her gaze and turn away from him. Exiting into the bright hotel hallway, she's hit with the wave of intertwined emotions once again. It manifests as a heaviness in her chest. She should have never let her guard down. She knows then, this ritual of compartmentalizing is crumbling around her. There's no stopping this now. No way to fix the damaged facade. But she's damn well going to try. It's all she's ever known, and she's not letting go without a fight.