Like No Other: Close Your Eyes
Chapter 2: Close Your Eyes
People call us renegades because we like livin’ crazy.
We like takin’ on this town
‘Cause people’s gettin’ lazy.
I don’t care what nobody says, no;
I’m gonna be her lover.
Always mad and usually drunk,
But I love her like no other.
-Kings of Leon, "Knocked Up"
Emily Prentiss stared out her hotel room window and watched the snow dance. It was beautiful, but frustrating, and she’d rather be on the way home than stuck here. The case had been fairly easy, as BAU cases went, and the team had been ready for a long, relaxing weekend back in Virginia…until they were thwarted by Mother Nature. She remembered Hotch’s Stephen King references, and did a quick sweep of the grounds framed by her window for topiaries.
All clear. She relaxed a fraction.
Her mouth curved in a self-deprecating little smile and she took another sip of mini bar vodka.
Maine wasn’t bad, all things considered. It was cold, true, but the landscape was gorgeous, and the people were friendly. It wasn’t home, though, and that’s where she wanted to be - her own apartment, her own vodka, her own view. Or maybe…Hotch’s apartment…with Hotch’s view…or, more precisely, her view of Hotch.
She’d been there a lot in the past six months, and she wasn’t entirely sure what it all meant. There hadn’t been anything romantic (much to Emily’s chagrin), but she felt like he wouldn’t be completely opposed to the idea. As if that were a recommendation, she thought wryly. No, everything had been very proper, and frankly she was finding the whole situation a bit frustrating. It had been six months; six long months of watching a man she’d always cared about pull himself back from the brink and become someone altogether new; and she found that this new Aaron Hotchner was even more intriguing than the old one had been.
Sighing, she set aside the half-finished drink and picked up her book - Mother Night, her favorite Vonnegut, and one she’d read roughly fifty times. It was a comfort book, something she always carried in her go bag no matter what else she might be reading (she wondered, briefly, what it might say about her that her chosen comfort book was the confessions of a Nazi war criminal…). She settled into the cozy hotel bed, flipped the thin volume open at random, and was soon lost in the familiar rhythms of the story.
She must’ve dozed off, because next thing she knew she was jerking awake to the sound of a pounding on her hotel room door. Sighing, frowning, she rose from the bed and hurried to answer. Stopped for a moment to check herself in the mirror; was glad she did, so that she could wipe the drool off her chin and run a hand through her hair. She opened the door and blinked in surprise.
“Prentiss,” he said before she could even open her mouth, “er, Emily…I know it’s late. Did I wake you? Sorry. I was just…” He trailed off; realized he was rambling.
She’d never heard careful, articulate Aaron Hotchner quite so…discomfited. She smiled a little, trying to put him at ease. “No, I was reading. Come in?” she invited, stepping back from the doorway.
If anything that seemed to make him even more nervous, though surely he hadn’t come to say whatever he wanted to say while standing in the hall. After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped into the room and she closed the door behind him.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked with a gesture toward the mini bar. “I figure the FBI can spot me some over priced vodka every now and then,” she explained, grinning.
He swallowed; returned her smile with a shaky one of his own. “Sure, a drink might be good.” He watched her add ice cubes to a glass, then splash in some Scotch (she knew his drink, of course) with her usual graceful, economical movements, and he wondered why the hell he’d come. It had seemed logical from the safety of his own room. Maybe not logical, exactly, but…it had made sense. Now he felt foolish, and he wished he’d just forgotten the whole thing and gone to sleep.
She handed him the glass with a smile; took a sip of her own old, much watered-down drink. “So. What brings you to my room in the wee hours? Business or mischief?”
He nearly choked, and the situation wasn’t improved when he looked up and into her dark, sparkling eyes.
She grinned. “I don’t know why you’re so surprised. You came here, not vice versa. It’s late; the case is solved; we’re all stranded here. What am I supposed to think?” She blinked innocently at him over the rim of her glass as she took another pull.
He sat his glass aside with every intention of returning to sanity. “Ah, Prentiss, listen,” he began with a frown.
She dropped her own drink onto the vanity with a solid clang. “No, Aaron, you listen.” She took a step toward him; watched him watch her with a guarded, wary look. “We’ve been spending a lot of time together these past several months, and I thought we were growing close. I don’t mean work-close, because we’ve always been work-close. I mean…friends-close, or maybe more-than-friends-close. I haven’t pushed it, or you, because I know it’s been a pretty delicate time.” She stopped to draw a breath.
“But now I open my door in the middle of the night and there you are, looking all weird and scared and strangely guilty, but when I make the suggestion that you might be here for less-than-innocent reasons, you go all weird. I’m tired of things being weird.” She moved closer still, and to his credit he didn’t fall back. “I know you’ve been through a hard time, and I’m trying to be sensitive, but I’m tired of being sensitive. I’m tired of you being so damn careful. Maybe it’s time you just closed your eyes and…jumped.”
He stared at her in adorable consternation, and part of her wanted to laugh. Another part was wondering how he’d react if she ran to hide in the bathroom. Or closet. Anything to get away from those piercing moss-green eyes, however befuddled they looked at the moment.
“You think I’m a ditherer?” he finally managed.
She huffed out a little chuckle. “About this? Yes.”
He’d never been called a ditherer in his life. Decisiveness, thou name is Aaron Hotchner. Or so he’d always thought. Now as he watched the expressive face of Emily Prentiss, colleague and friend, he realized she was right. He was bungling Clarence’s life lesson like a fool. Shaking his head, he reached for her. She was surprised, shocked almost, but instinct let her fall against him like coming home. Their eyes met; locked; his eyes closed a fraction of a second before his mouth found hers.
She thought she heard him mutter, as the kiss broke and before the next one began, the words “chocolate cake,” but surely she was mistaken.
Those of you who've read "Your Turn" know my issue with topiaries.
I had intended for this to be a one-shot, so instead it's two chapters. It all happens rather quickly, but remember it's been six months (not to mention the years before) building to this moment. So, in reality, it's all been kinda slow.