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They didn’t usually stay in the BAU after dark.
Well, not the whole team, anyway.
Hotch is well accustomed to the sight of the bullpen with shadowy corners, scarce lights hanging above a few desks and lighting desolate hallways. Now, though, the lights remain head-achingly bright as the clock ticks 7, the BAU nowhere near sleep as they scramble to find a missing 10-year-old girl. Hotch had called them back barely two hours after they’d left Quantico, and with stifled sighs the team had gathered at the round table, just as the sky broke and rain started to fall in sheets.
Emily stands with her hands clutched around the back of a chair, too jittery to sit as she looks at the image of the girl on the TV. The case is local, but that’s where their luck ends.
“Local PD is already canvassing the neighborhood, but with the rain, it’s going to be harder for the dogs to pick up a scent.” Hotch says from where he stands next to her, tension tight in his frame. “Which is why we need to focus on—”
The room suddenly plunges into darkness. It’s thick and absolute; the blinds are drawn, and without light coming in from anywhere, Emily can’t even see her fingertips. A surprised huff leaves her, the sound drowned out by Morgan’s voice.
“Must be the rain.” He says mildly.
“Backup generators should kick in.”
She knows where the voices are coming from, but she can’t see. Though she waits, her breath held and her muscles tensed, the backup generators don’t kick in.
It takes less than a minute before Emily’s heart starts pounding against her ribcage. She blinks uselessly, as if she can force the cloying dark away.
Unsurprisingly, it remains.
She raises a trembling hand, her breath coming out in short puffs as she tries to glimpse the pale skin of her fingers through the black. But they’re gone, though she knows her hand is almost touching her nose. Her mouth dries up. The walls start closing in, suffocating her, a vice crushing her lungs and trapping the air inside her body. The sound of the team talking fades away to a distant hum, replaced by rushing cars and honking horns, running rampant even deep into the night. Emily’s shoulders tighten, her hand falling limp at her side.
She’s back in her dark apartment in Paris.
Blackout curtains drawn tight, the whole apartment pitch black come night. Thin walls, bolted doors, phantom ice blue eyes blinking at her through windows. She’s cowering on her couch, waiting for Ian Doyle to rear his head.
Her hands tremble. Ian. He’s looking for her, combing the world for any mention of her name. Emily bites back a whimper, fear stiffening her muscles. Hot tears well in her eyes as she reaches for the first thing she remembers: Hotch at her side, to her left. Her fingers close around his wrist, what’s left of her nails digging into his skin.
Turn the lights on.
The words don’t come out. Emily gasps, trying to force her numb tongue to move. It just barely does, fuzzy and heavy and reluctant to follow her will. “L-Lights.” She chokes out, her voice garbled as she tightens her grip on his wrist. The tears spill down her cheeks, fast and hot as it grows harder to breathe. His pulse quickens beneath her fingers; he also knows Ian’s coming.
If Hotch is scared, she stands no chance.
A sob rips free from her chest, loud and uncontrollable, her nails digging deeper into Hotch’s wrist as the silence comes back. Silence is worse. Silence is worse. Silence means the darkness the medics were trying to pull her out of. Is she dying? She’s dying. Her heart slams painfully into her ribs, sweat slicks the inside of her shirt, but she’s dying. And this time is no different than before; there’s no light, there’s no warmth, there’s no—
“Okay, okay.” Hotch says. Bright white light suddenly bursts from his phone. It illuminates his face, but the dark lingers in the corners of her vision. Emily barely feels the drip of tears off her chin as she trembles.
Hotch suddenly pulls her by the hand she has clamped around his wrist. He drags her out of the room and she can barely follow, her feet tripping after him, her breaths coming out loud as he brings her into his office and shuts the door. She distantly hears a rattle as her blurry eyes dart around, searching for blue irises.
She has to get him. She has to get him before he gets her, because Hotch is with her now and her scar burns and if his dead corpse falls at her feet it’ll be her fault.
“Go.” Emily sobs. She shoves at his chest with her other hand, still holding on to his wrist.
“You want me to go?” Hotch asks quietly.
“He’s coming.” She whimpers. Tears run in streams down her cheeks, “Go.” Her voice breaks.
“No one’s coming, Emily.” He soothes. Sliding his phone into the breast pocket of his jacket, the light steadies and shines into her eyes. “It’s just you and me. You’re safe. I promise.”
She shakes her head violently, nausea swirling in her gut as her vision blurs. “K-Kill you. He’ll kill you, Hotch, y’have to go.” She rasps, her voice choked. Her body is covered in sweat, wracked with shivers as she frantically looks over her shoulder, her muscles tensing at the shadows in the corners.
“Emily.” Hotch places a hand on her shoulder, the other one still trapped tightly in hers. “Hey, look at me. Nobody’s here.”
She shakes her head. Wrong, he’s wrong, he couldn’t see Ian the first time, but she did, she does because he’s coming for her and she chokes as she tries to bring air into her lungs, the oxygen not getting through, her heart pounding as she hears, “Hello, Lauren—”
He takes his hand off her shoulder and brings it to her fingers wrapped around his wrist. Hotch presses them in deeper, and his heart pulses against their joint skin. “You can feel my pulse, right?”
Emily whips her head back to look at him, distantly hearing a crack in her neck. She can. It’s sure and steady and everything he always is. She blinks, her head jerkily falling forward in a nod.
“Good. Focus on it, breathe with me.” Hotch coaxes. “You’re having a panic attack.”
But there’s no time. Emily shakes her head. No time, she tries to say, but her tongue fails her. Move. They should move. She opens her mouth to tell him that, but a hand wraps around her windpipe. It squeezes and she doubles over, gasping as she tries to breathe through her mouth, her chest moving up and down, up and down. Nausea swirls in and she chokes on another sob, wishing Ian would come out and stop her heart, just to save her from the sweat on her hands and the tears on her cheeks.
Hotch quickly ditches his effort. He bends down to her level, almost kneeling on the floor. Light shines in her eyes. “Emily.” He says over her crying. “I need you to tell me three things you can hear right now.”
His firm voice breaks through her thoughts. His stern Hotch voice, the one he barks out orders with, but when her eyes meet his, they’re pinched with worry. Her breathing stutters.
The wrinkle between his brows deepens. “Tell me, Emily,” he says, softly now that he has her attention. “Three things you hear.”
Emily licks her lips. She’s still breathing heavily when she says, “Your v-voice.” Her reply is hoarse. She brings a hand up to wipe the tears on her face, keeping her eyes on Hotch’s. Brown. Brown, not blue. The thought sends her heart kicking again and she gasps; Hotch takes her hand.
“That’s good,” he murmurs, and she holds on to the low lilt of it. American, smooth, concern lacing his words.
Ian is never concerned.
“One more?” He prods.
Emily blows out a trembling breath. “Um,” she pauses for a second, forcing air through her lungs as she looks around. The blinds here are open. Her eyes dart to the windows, latching onto the slightly lighter night outside. Streaks of water race down the glass; pinpricks slam against it in pitter patters. “The rain.” She rasps.
“Good,” Hotch assures. His hand is warm in hers and he squeezes, bringing her gaze back to him. “Do you hear anything else?”
He rubs his thumb between her knuckles. The vice around Emily’s lungs gives, and she breathes in greedily. Warm air rushes in; she shakes her head. “Uh,” she swallows, her throat tingling, “keep talking.”
Hotch does. He tells her about Jack and his hobbies and the classes he likes at school. He tells her about soccer Saturdays and little league games and seven-year-olds kicking balls into each other’s faces more often than into the goals. He tells her what he made for dinner yesterday—pasta and chicken—and he tells her that dino nuggets aren’t everything they’re cracked up to be. At some point she feels something hard beneath her knees and notices they’re on the floor. Her hand is between both of his. Hotch is squeezing, three times and then pausing, before starting again.
He just…talks. It distantly registers in her head that she’s never heard him talk this much before. The tears dry on Emily’s cheeks; her breathing slows. Ian fades away into the distance, Hotch pushing him with a firm hand back into his box. She blinks. The lights turn on.
She squints into Hotch’s eyes, but he continues, unbothered. “I’m usually careful about washing whites, but we’d just come back from Syracuse and I couldn’t be fucked.” He tells her.
A weak, spluttered laugh leaves Emily’s lips.
A small smile tugs at Hotch’s lips. He kneads between her knuckles, “You remember how that case was,” he murmurs and she nods, because she does. Dead ends, piling bodies, increasingly random victimology. “The last thing I wanted to do after that was sift through Jack’s clothes, so I just dumped the whole thing in the wash. Bad idea,” he shakes his head, though the damage is long done. “Isn’t it crazy how one red sock turns the whole load pink?” His tone is mildly incredulous.
“They did warn us about that in the cartoons.” Emily says, her voice gritty. She clears her throat.
Hotch nods. “That they did.” He agrees. The rush of activity is back outside, and though he doesn’t look away from her, Emily knows he notices.
He squeezes her hand again. “Are you good?” His voice is soft.
She nods. Her gaze drops to his hand around hers. It’s abnormally warm, but she doesn’t pull away.
“Because if you’re not, you can go home, Emily.”
The skin of her cheeks is sticky with dried tears, and a faint tremble lingers in her muscles. “I’m fine,” she insists anyway. Her voice is like sandpaper, scraped raw. Emily licks her lips, drawing her lip between her teeth, “Just…” She trails off and presses a palm into her eyes. “Um—can I…”
The words are stuck. It’s hardly the most vulnerable thing Hotch would have witnessed, but even as she tries to force out the words, they remain in the back of her throat.
His thumb ghosts over her knuckles. “Jack says I give nice teddy bear hugs. They’re known to be quite healing.” He says mildly.
Emily drops her palm. “Does he?” She whispers, briefly wondering how he got into her mind.
Hotch nods. A small dimple appears in his cheek as he says, “You could try it out for yourself.”
He stops the movement of his thumb on the back of her hand. Emily removes it from his grip and he opens his arms ever so slightly, an invitation.
She takes it.
Emily leans forward and loops her arms around his neck. She breathes out, low and shaky as her head falls on his shoulder. Hotch doesn’t say anything as he rubs her back, his palms warm through her shirt as she hides under his jaw. She breathes in the scent of him, comforting and warm, uncoiling her tight muscles with each pass of his hand between her shoulder blades.
She doesn’t know how long they stay there, entangled, the beat of her heart slowing to match the pace of his. Emily never would’ve guessed he’d be this comfortable, but she melts into his arms, finding it impossible to lean away.
Eventually, though, she finds the strength.
“Thank you.” She says quietly, tucking her hair behind her ear for having something to do. She feels torn open, ripped raw and exposed beneath his watchful eyes.
Hotch stands up. He extends his hand and she takes it, letting him pull her up, too. Even after she’s steady, he doesn’t let go.
“I’m here, Emily.” He says. “Any time.”
It’s a promise.
She musters a half smile and he nods, letting go. He moves to his desk and she watches as he opens his go bag, taking out a bottle of water and something that crinkles in its wrapper.
Hotch comes to stand in front of her and hands her the bottle and a bar of chocolate. “Stay here a little. Eat this.” He presses them into her hands.
Emily shakes her head, a weak protest on her tongue, but Hotch doesn’t give her the chance.
“That’s an order,” he says gently.
Emily smiles, faint. They both know she of all people is more prone to bending those.
“Sit down a little,” he prods, tilting his head to the couch behind her.
Though Emily obliges, she protests this time. “But the case.” She rasps as she sits down, internally grateful for the soft leather beneath her worn muscles.
“You can come join us when you’ve eaten that.” Hotch points to the chocolate. Emily holds it to her forehead in a weak salute before she unwraps it and takes a bite.
“The water, too.” He says, walking to the door.
“Yes, Chief.” Emily mumbles, her eyes growing unbearably heavy as she fills her mouth with the sweet chocolate. She can’t even find the strength for an eye roll, and when Hotch leaves and closes the door behind him, she collapses backward on the couch.
When Hotch walks back into his office almost five hours later, the missing girl tucked back safely in her bed, he finds Emily curled on her side on his couch, fast asleep.