Identity Post-Ep
Title: Identity Post-Ep
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Characters/Pairings: Emily Prentiss/Aaron Hotchner
Word Count: Over 5000.
Rating: FRAO/NC-17/M
Warnings: Smut. But emotional smut.
Spoiler alert: 3x07, I think. "Identity"
Summary: She can't make it make sense.
Disclaimer: Recognize it? Then I don't own it.
Author's Note: Originally posted on ff.net. I loved it. This particular chapter. It was part of a bigger piece, but since I don't watch Criminal Minds anymore and my writing for it is few and far between, I decided I'd post it here so it was somewhere, since I want to take down the story as a whole.
He could still vividly picture the look on her face when Reid had told her the apparatus she'd picked up was the Pear of Anguish. He'd been just as disturbed by the entire scene as he'd thought about what those women had gone through, what they'd endured at the hands of this textbook sexual sadist. There was nothing textbook about this, nothing textbook about what their UNSUBs victims suffered.
Women who had Emily's colouring.
He'd been honestly taken aback at how strongly he'd reacted to the whole scene. The connection his brain made between the victims and the dark-haired colleague that wouldn't leave his mind. But he knew it had nothing on what Emily's reaction had been. He couldn't imagine the thoughts racing through her mind as they went through the room.
He'd kept an eye on her through the rest of the case, out of professional courtesy, of course. It had absolutely nothing to do with the way his eyes were drawn to her more and more often. It had nothing to do with the way his heart rate picked up when she was close. It had nothing to do with the fact that he could smell her, berries and vanilla, in the dark of night in his lonely bed. It had nothing to do with the way his chest ached at the picture of her so disturbed and almost frightened.
If it hadn't been for the last hours on the plane, he would have believed she'd compartmentalized and would live to fight another UNSUB. The way she'd stared despondently out the window during the entirety of their flight told him otherwise. The pain was still there and he was sure that if she thought anyone was still awake, she'd have had a better mask in place. That God-damned impenetrable politician's daughter mask. He hated that mask.
He leaned back as the plane tipped for their final descent, trying with everything in him to avoid the thoughts racing through his mind, thoughts of Emily being the one of the dark-haired, dark-eyed victims that had gone missing. Vivid pictures of her strapped to that chair, struggling in that box, screaming at the top of her lungs… her dead body wrapped in one of those plastic tarps… He found his breath hitching against his ribs.
It wasn't the first time he'd been able to put one of his agents into the role of a victim by any stretch of the imagination. Since most of their UNSUBs turned out to be male, it was almost a given that JJ, Emily and even Elle back when she'd been part of the unit, had fit the victimology time and again. This time, however, his synapses didn't want to let go of the fact that one of those women could have easily been Emily Prentiss. She could have been one of those women tortured and abused by Goehring and Frost.
He sighed as the plane jolted with their touchdown and wasn't surprised that Emily was the first one off the plane. She was sitting close to the doors anyway, and with nothing to keep her on the damned jet, she'd easily snatched her purse and walked down the steps. When Hotch deplaned, he noticed Emily giving Morgan a tight smile as he offered up her go-bag. What did surprise him was the way she hung back, walking slowly and though he'd been the last one off the plane - and no one had stayed behind to help him with his go-bag - he caught up to her easily, falling into the rhythm of her heels on the pavement. She didn't react to his presence. In fact, she jumped when he rested a hand on her shoulder.
He cocked his head to the side, away from the Bureau building. "Come on."
Part of him was truly surprised that she didn't fight him. Instead, she allowed him to lead her away from where the team was headed, and off of the Quantico tarmac. He led her around the BAU building to the parking garage beneath, bypassing the usual stop in the bullpen completely. Gently, he extracted her bag from her hand as he steered them towards his car.
After the Poole case and his revelation in the bullpen, he'd left with her. She'd taken him to her condo, presented him with a cup of tea and plopped down on the couch. She hadn't asked questions about the separation, just provided periodic observational commentary on the shenanigans on Happy Days. Though it had been slightly painful to watch the onscreen family when his seemed so broken, he'd been surprised to find that even curled at the opposite end of the couch, a cushion and a half separating him from her, he didn't feel so alone.
All the wanted to do now was repay even a little bit of that kindness, but he knew a hotel room, the only place he'd been staying since giving the house to Haley, wasn't the place for it. That was too cold, too sterile and with what they'd seen, he'd bet home was a better choice on principle. With the job they did, hotel rooms tended to blend together. He doubted she'd be able to unwind in a hotel room.
Neither of them said a word as he made the drive to her condo and her attention stayed focused out the window. He wanted to reach a hand out, to rest it on her arm, her hand, her thigh, to give himself the tangible proof that she was there as much as to offer human comfort, but he wasn't sure how she'd react. Instead, he gripped the wheel of the car with both hands, his knuckles turning white as he resisted reaching out to her.
They were stopped at a red light, waiting at the intersection closest to her home when she reached over, her hand landing softly on his white knuckles. His head turned to her, his question unasked.
The two words were whispered, but he heard them almost as clear as day, "Come up?"
He nodded his ascent and she dug in her purse for her parking pass. He slid it into the card reader that would let him into her underground garage, typing in the code as she rattled off the numbers. He picked up her bag from the back hatch as he rounded the car and they headed off towards the elevators. He forced himself to stay a full step away from her in the car, following her into the hallway to her apartment. Once inside, he watched her drop her keys on a nearby table, her purse finding a home on the floor beside it.
Then she turned back to him, asking, "Can I get you anything?"
"Whatever you're having is fine," he replied, allowing her to take her bag from his hand. She slid it beside her purse and headed into the kitchen. He followed.
She went about pulling out the kettle and filled it with water. After putting it on, two mugs came out of her cupboard and as she set them down, he noticed for the first time that her hands were shaking. He found himself closing the few steps between them. She turned just as he moved within touching distance. Then, her body was against his, her arms wrapping around his waist. He felt her hot tears against his chest through his shirt and undershirt. He could do nothing but wind his arms around her, trying to shush her quietly as she sobbed.
Eventually, she pulled back. "I know they were sociopaths. I know that what they did is terrible and wrong and…" She shook her head. "I just can't wrap my head around it."
Part of him hoped that she'd never be able to wrap her head around it. He admired her empathy and her compassion and always had. He tightened his arms as she rested her head back against his chest, her sobs having died down. He sighed when he felt her head tilt upwards, felt her lips press against his throat. His tone was warning when he said, "Emily."
"Please," she whispered against his neck, breath fanning over his skin. "I need this."
Oh, those were dangerous words. They tugged at his heartstrings and set off his mental alarms at the same time. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about her using him for this, for this kind of release, and this kind of comfort. At the same time, he knew comfort sex was not a new concept to members of the BAU, and members of the FBI at large. It was a way to cope with the adrenaline rush of a particularly stressful take down, a case that went bad, a mistake in the office... He knew agents used sex to remind themselves that they could feel, that the horrors and stresses of their working lives hadn't crept into their humanity.
When he thought about it, he was glad she was coming to him with this and not going to some stranger. Yet, he knew that this, what she wanted, was going to have so many more implications and consequences than if he was a stranger. This went beyond the obvious physical chemistry they had together when they were left to their own devices and not on the clock.
"Aaron... I need you."
How in the hell was he supposed to say 'no' to that? Consequences, he decided, could wait until the harsh light of morning. And if he was honest with himself, he wasn't sure he could offer her much more than this. He was a broken shell of a man, going through the pain of a separation from a woman he'd vowed to love and cherish for the rest of his days, and missing his son, and he wasn't a bloody saint. He couldn't deny the physical chemistry between them. If he could offer her this, this moment, this night, this memory, in exchange for her stability and sanity, then the consequences in the morning would be a small price to pay.
He tilted her chin up, pressing his mouth to hers. She opened underneath him, pushing herself against him, as close as she could get, trying to urge him faster. But he didn't want to push it. If they were going to do this, it was going to be about more than just feeling, more than just reminding her that there were good things in life, that there was pleasure and there was passion. This was going to be about her, about proving to her that not all men wanted to torture and degrade women, use them as sexual beings then throw them out with the morning trash.
So he set about worshipping her, going slow, running his hand gently down her back, trying to encourage her to slow, even just a touch. He could feel her hands clenched in the back of his jacket where her arms had wrapped around his waist. He reached back, gently taking hold of her wrists and tugging her hands free. Simultaneously, he pulled away from her addictive taste, his lip quirking up almost sadly when she tried to follow him, whimpering. He brought his hand up, cupping her cheek. His thumb brushed at her bottom lip.
"Bedroom," he said gently, quietly.
"Here," she replied forcefully, trying to break his grip on her wrists.
He held fast, leaning in to just touch his lips to hers. "Bedroom, Emily," he murmured against her mouth.
He took the lead, pulling on her hand until they reached the bottom of the stairs. He wanted to make it clear to her that Goehring and Frost were the exception, not the rule. His hand came up to the side of her face, fingers sliding through the hair at her temple as he looked at her.
"I want this," she told him quietly. "I need this."
He nodded slowly, darting his gaze up the stairs. She took a deep breath, then took his hand. They climbed the stairs together, and she kept a grip on his hand for the short walk to her bedroom. He pulled her to a stop in the center of the room, his eyes looking around slowly. He knew this wasn't what he was here for, but he couldn't help the little glance into Emily Prentiss. She'd headed across the room to flip on one of the lamps one either side of her queen-sized bed and his eyes darted around her space. Unlike her downstairs, largely done in whites, her bedroom was all dark colours, chocolate browns and dark wines. This was more the woman he knew and it told him she probably spent most of her time up here instead of down in the society-appropriate living room.
His arms wrapped around her from behind when he realized he was simply taking too long, tugging her to rest against his chest. One hand brushed her hair off of one shoulder before joining its counterpart at the bottom button of her blouse. They'd all taken a shower after that dusty show down, and she now wore an office-appropriate button-up blouse instead of the blue t-shirt she'd been wearing in Montana. But he left the buttons closed, focusing instead on the elegant slope of her neck, teasing the sensitive skin at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.
He felt when her pulse picked up.
He heard her breath catch.
Her hands slid under his, twining her fingers between his to try and coax him on, but he resisted, folding their hands together over her stomach instead. "Slow, Emily."
She surprised him when she turned, looking up at him. "Now, Aaron."
But he was stronger than she was and held her hands down and away from him as he ran his tongue along her exposed collarbone, then kissed his way back up again, nipping at her neck slightly before he pressed his cheek against hers, his mouth in perfect position to whisper in her ear. "Trust me," he breathed hotly against her ear. "Slow and I'll make it worth your while."
She shivered at the seductive intent of his words and he felt her clench her fists in his dress shirt just above the waistband of his pants before she dragged them up his chest to his shoulders. "On one condition."
She was giving him conditions? He raised an eyebrow as his mouth quirked up. "Anything." Part of him hoped she knew he meant more than just this, but that was the part that knew his marriage was over, had been over since that plane ride to Milwaukee. He spent so much time silencing that voice as he fought with Haley it was easy to ignore now.
"You lose the jacket and tie."
He chuckled darkly, but let her hands push the black suit jacket off of his shoulders. It fell to the ground with a soft slither and his hands went to her hips as she unknotted his tie. His thumbs crept under the dark blouse she wore, stroking the soft skin just above her hip. Her fingers paused, then sped up, all but ripping the tie from his collar. Part of him thrilled at the fact that the one touch could make her forget their little 'deal'. So much so that when his tie had been discarded by his jacket, she went straight for the buttons at his neck. His hands came up to grasp her wrists again, stroking under the cuffs of her blouse as he wrapped her arms around his neck instead. She huffed slightly, but complied, stroking the hair at the back of his neck. He shivered at the feeling. She smiled.
He figured it was time for a distraction and pressed his mouth to hers again, his hand coming up to cup the back of her skull and move her where he wanted her. She didn't take much coaxing to open her mouth beneath his and he plunged his tongue into her mouth, unrestrained in this kiss. He forced himself to tune to her reactions instead of the way his pants tightened at the feeling of her body against his. This was, after all, supposed to be all about her. His pleasure came secondary to hers, it had to. This was her battle.
That didn't mean he couldn't push her pleasure.
His fingers started at the bottom of her blouse, managing to get the first three buttons undone without the help of the hand still threaded in her hair. He pulled away from her, their breaths harsh in the room. He caught her eyes as his fingers went to her top button, starting to work to where he'd left off. He brought her wrists up, softly, gently undoing the cuffs and pressing a kiss to the pulse point there. Pointedly, he ignored the way her eyes filled. It would do them no good to bring emotion into this.
He felt her chest stop as he brushed against the top of her bra. This time, he took a good look at the silk and lacy fabric, running his hands around its edges, taking in the little bow between her breasts. He smiled at the impracticality of the navy blue garment, all the things it accentuated. It was his new favourite colour.
"I don't know if this is standard issue," he said, his voice a dark velvet in the quiet.
She chuckled, the previous moisture in her eyes blinked away. "My rebellion in a male-dominated profession," she replied candidly, her fingers coming to his dress shirt as he filed away that information. That was going to fuel his fantasies for a while. "Wait 'til you see its matching pair."
If that was supposed to be a hint for him to hurry, he ignored it, instead focused on cupping her, his fingers brushing gently over her nipples. Her head fell back, but her fingers didn't stop on his buttons. He grinned when they stumbled right around the middle of his chest and repeated the way his fingers had snuck beneath the underwire. He bent his head, going back to her shoulder, just to the left of her bra strap. His mouth trailed down beside the fabric, pressing his lips gently to her skin, taking in her scent. He could feel her hair against his fingers where they rested over the bra's clasp.
"Now you're just teasing." Her words were breathy, anticipation heady in her tone. He smiled against her skin, pressing his lips between her breasts for a slow, long, kiss. Then he switched direction completely, latching on to a hardening nipple through her bra. She choked on her breath. He moved her backwards slowly, carefully, watching the carpet and mentally trying to calculate the distance to her bed. She gasped again as she hit the mattress, the way the impact jarred more of her flesh into his mouth. He switched breasts as he boosted her onto the mattress, feeling her trying to anchor herself by the grip on his neck. But he followed her to the mattress, arranging her beneath him so they lined up almost perfectly.
He unclasped her bra, battling it out of the way and fastening his mouth on naked skin. She outright moaned. Loudly. He grinned, his hand stroking over her stomach now that the barrier of her bra was gone. She arched into his hands and his mouth, her hands tangling in his hair. He laughed, low and deep as he trailed up from her breasts to kiss her again, feeling her fingers back on the buttons at his stomach. This time he didn't try to distract her and allowed her the concentration to undo them and pull his undershirt from the waistband of his slacks.
"Why you insist on wearing two layers is beyond me," she breathed out as he helped her push off his shirt and pulled back enough for her to whip the undershirt over his head.
He laughed as he kissed her. She didn't actually want an explanation, so he brush his fingers, light as a feather, down her neck, between her breasts - and ignoring the way she arched into the touch - down her stomach until they could play at her belt, pants button and fly. His mouth went back to her breasts as he undid the barrier, sure enough, feeling the touch of lace at the tips of his fingers. Satin, lace and Emily Prentiss made a combination that had him reciting the statistics of American serial killers to distract his mind. Unlike her blouse, he made quick work of pulling her pants down her legs, stopping to dispose of her socks as well. Then she was in only those navy blue panties and he looked up at her.
"You are the type of woman a man takes his time with," he said as he crawled up her body again. "You're the type of woman that haunts a man in the depths of the night, in those dark corners..."
She shivered at his words. "You don't need to flatter me."
His hand stroked hair off her cheek, a tender gesture considering the way things were between them. "It's not flattery Emily. You have no idea of what you do to men."
He kissed her instead of having to deal with a reply, allowing her access to his belt and pants. He pushed them off, then sat up long enough to deal with his own socks before joining her back on her bed, only in his boxers. His mouth went immediately to her belly button, kissing around her stomach and lower as his fingers stroked her through wet satin. Of course she was wet. She'd have jumped him in her kitchen if he'd let her. Her head fell back into the bedding as his fingers stroked her through her panties, experimenting, speeding, slowing... He watched her carefully, judging by her reactions which movement got what response. His finger brushed up, hitting that bundle of nerves and she jerked against him, her breath catching audibly before she let it out in a long moan of his name.
His first name.
He revelled in the syllables as they came off her tongue, worked her harder, deeper, never dropping beneath her panties. He worked her to the precipice of her peak before gentling, only to do it again. His mouth wasn't idle, dropping kisses on her stomach, her breasts, his hand never lightening in his assault on her body. Finally, he took pity on her, this time working her up, higher, higher, higher until her body tensed and shook, her orgasm overtaking her senses. He continued stroking her panties through her climax his mouth moving up to slowly kiss her. Her arms came up around his neck, running down his back, dipping beneath his boxers to cup her ass in her palms. She smiled as he pulled away, both of them breathless.
"Jesus."
He laughed before his kisses started trailing down her neck again, teasing the peaks of her breasts before heading lower. His fingers hooked under her panties, pulling them down her long, long legs until he could discard them off of the side of the bed. He mouthed at her hip, his hand stroking at oh-so-soft skin on the other side. His fingers drifted up her thigh again, pushing her legs apart and giving him access to her core. Her hips pushed upwards as his mouth touched the skin just above her curls.
"Aaron..."
He wasn't done worshipping her yet. Her control, the control she'd so desperately wanted when they started this, could wait another little while. He wasn't done with her yet and he made that abundantly clear by the way he spread her open for him, touching his tongue to nerve endings that still tingled. She groaned and arched, simultaneously trying to get closer to his touch and pull away to give her hyper-sensitized flesh a chance to recover. His hands pressed on her hips, keeping her in one place as he explored how to touch. He looked up as his hand tangled in her hair again.
"Come here."
"In a minute," he murmured against her, just as he fastened his mouth around her and sucked.
She squealed in surprise and pleasure and he went back to tonguing her flesh before he did it again. This one sent her tumbling over the edge again and he grinned as he crawled back up her body, planting kisses at strategic intervals. Her eyes were still glassy when he met her gaze, brushing her sweaty bangs back. He took in the flush of her cheeks, the tremors in her body, and he found himself absolutely humbled by what had just happened. He kissed her to ward off of the emotion, focusing on the way his tongue battled with hers, feeling her hands push his boxers down. Then she pushed against him, rolling them over, and he went willingly. She perched above him, her hair falling around their faces as they kissed.
She pulled back and reached over to her bedside table, the one with the lamp she'd turned on, and dug in the drawer, coming up with a foil package. She tore it open and slid it on his length, rock hard and ready for her. She didn't waste time sinking down on him and he saw stars as her warm wetness engulfed him. He couldn't stop himself from bucking upwards at the feeling, and she cried out at the sensation as he drove himself further into her. His eyes darkened. He wanted to hear that sound again. So he held her hips and pulled out before thrusting back up again. Sure enough, there was that little cry, the one that tapered off into a whimper. It was such a turn on and he found himself harden further.
Finally, she got a hold of herself and started rocking in time with his thrusting. Her hands fell to his chest, combing through the hair there, reaching out to touch curiously at his nipples. He focused on thrusting into her, into getting those cries, moans and whimpers of pleasure from her lips. She lifted up and down on him, and he felt himself rising closer and closer to his climax. So he focused on her, on rocking her just right against his pelvis, on ensuring that every one of his thrusts shot her upwards towards her own orgasm. He guided her hips down forcefully onto his length until he felt her start to flutter around him. He smiled and reached down, brushing her clit with one calloused finger.
And she screamed.
Emily collapsed against his chest as he thrust once more into her, feeling his own orgasm take hold. Then, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her to his chest. His mouth made contact with her salty, sweaty shoulder and he licked at her taste. He let her lay there for a moment before he pushed herself upwards with a monumental effort and a little moan as he was withdrawn from his body. He got up to dispose of the condom and washed his hands and face. She was facing the bathroom, eyes watching him. He had no idea what to do. Should he just go? Did she want him to just go?
Her eyes were soft as they met his and she patted the pillow beside her. He smiled, just a little quirk of his lips, and crawled in beside her.
"Thank you," she said softly as she turned to curl against him.
He let her snuggle up to his side, his hand stroking up and down her back, lulling her to sleep. He felt her breath even out and closed his eyes at the feelings that were overwhelming him. How was he supposed to come to grips with the fact that he wanted another woman when he loved his wife? He wanted to get back together with Haley, really he did, so why was he putting himself in these kinds of situations with Emily Prentiss of all people.
Consequences indeed.
Hotch was gone.
She wasn't surprised. Not really. He avoided an awkward morning after. They both were very rigid in the way they kept personal out of professional, so he had to know that when they got into the office nothing would have changed. Well, nothing he'd notice anyway. She buried her head in the pillow that smelled like he did, like comfort and safety, stability and caring. He had to know she didn't let people in easily, that she didn't trust as quickly as others. He had to know that letting him into her house was one thing, but letting him into her bed was something more. She'd never let a man share her actual bed. She'd shared men's beds, she wasn't a virgin by any stretch of the imagination, but sharing her physical bed had always seemed like too much emotional attachment.
But he couldn't have known that. Sure, she'd been there for him after the Poole case and she'd wanted to be there for him after Katie Jacob's abduction, but her bed was something that had always been just hers. It was a safe-haven, away from all of the pain of her life, the duty, the frustrations... He'd never know how far into her life, into her world, she'd let him last night.
She felt the tears soak the pillowcase. What had she been thinking? How was she supposed to pull away from him now? She couldn't, there was no question about that. He'd shared with her, and she knew how much of a milestone that was. But she hadn't anticipated the sheer emotional attachment that was threading through her blood. Good Lord, she knew better! She couldn't sleep with her freaking boss! That was career suicide, not to mention what could happen to the team if things went sour. And with the way their relationship started, she had very little faith that it wouldn't go downhill.
More than that, she didn't do that kind of emotion. It was that simple. She didn't put herself in the line of fire in her personal life. Sex was one thing. She'd used it for release before. Emotion was a completely different beast. Emotion with Hotch was... suicidal.
Well, she'd just compartmentalize. She'd just put Hotch into one of her little boxes in her head, and go about her business. Nothing had happened, that was the way it had to be. She couldn't sit around her apartment crying because he hadn't spent the night. He'd done his job hadn't he? He'd restored her equilibrium and reminded her that not all men looked at women as objects to abuse and sexually assault. Just because he'd happened to do it while giving her one of the greatest nights of her life didn't mean anything.
It couldn't.
She blew out a breath as she threw off the covers, heading for the shower. Who was she kidding? It so did.
Crap.