Word Count: 1,850
Warnings: Spoilers for Season 6, possibly bad French
Summary: Hotch and Prentiss reunite in Paris.
Author's Notes: First CM fic in awhile. Can't say the latest season has been too inspiring, but somehow I've written this. Hope you guys enjoy.
Author's Note: Special thanks to dragonladyk who helped me out with the French - any mistakes are hers. ;-)
The phone on his bedside table buzzes once, then stops.
He rolls over and reaches for it, heart thumping. In the six months since he’d bought the prepaid phone, it had never rung. It was an emergency number, a lifeline, in case she needed help.
A single text message flashes on the screen.
“Barcelona is lonely this time of year.”
When they found out she was going to live, he and JJ had swung into action. Passports were hastily arranged, a flight was found out of the country, and she was smuggled out of the hospital in a body bag.
The last time he saw her was in the back of the ambulance. The rest of the team had returned to the BAU, devastated, and he stayed behind to make sure she got out of the hospital okay.
He climbed into the back of the ambulance and unzipped the body bag, leaning over her. “They’re driving you to New York,” he said quietly, ghosting his fingers over her forehead. “You’ll be checked into hospital there and tomorrow JJ will stop by to give you your plane ticket. The flight leaves on Thursday for Paris.”
“Hotch,” she’d whispered, blinking back tears. “I’m so sorry.”
He had shaken his head rapidly, biting down hard on his lower lip. “It is not your fault.”
She laughed hollowly. “Unfortunately this time, it is my fault.”
He rattled off a few more details, and ended by breathing into her ear, “JJ will give you a cell phone number. If you ever need me, just call it. I’ll keep it with me 24/7.”
Emily closed her eyes, swallowing hard. “I never loved him, you know.” A tear had leaked out of the corner of her eye and slid down her cheek. He’d brushed it away with his finger, and kissed her on the forehead.
“I know.” He cleared his throat, glancing at his watch, and said gruffly, “We will catch him, and then you can come home. Okay?”
A ghost of a smile crossed her face. “I believe you.”
Hotch blinks at the text message, confused. Six months and he hadn’t heard anything from her. He’d tried to put her out of his mind, knowing she was safe, but late at night, when the moon was shining in his window and the room was dark and cold, he thought about her.
Part of him wondered if it was a trick – if someone had captured her and was sending messages on her behalf, but there was something so Emily about it. She’d always gotten an evil thrill out of sending him dirty messages at inopportune times of the day, and this was no exception.
He sends back, “It’s lonely in Washington as well.”
He wonders if she’ll reply, and if reading his thoughts the phone buzzes in his hand again.
“Thinking about you a lot lately.”
Hotch smiles despite himself, and types back, “Thinking about you all the time.”
The phone is silent for a long time, and Hotch rolls on his side, closing his eyes and trying to sleep. He keeeps the phone tucked in his hand, under his chin, and almost jerks off the bed when it begins to ring.
He sits up, fumbling with it for a moment, before answering breathlessly. “Hello?”
“I knew you’d be thinking about me.” She still sounds the same, devilishly sexy and wicked at the same time – only now, an undercurrent of sadness. She’s lonely.
“Always,” he murmurs. “Are you sure this is safe?”
“I fucking miss you, Aaron,” she says passionately, and his heart aches in his chest.
“I miss you too.”
He hears her sigh, and she murmurs, “I need to see you.”
“It’s too dangerous, you know that. We can’t risk your safety.”
“I will be in Paris in four days, Aaron,” she says firmly. “Do you remember that little cafe I told you about, on the river?”
His throat is suddenly dry. “Yes.”
“I will see you there on Saturday at noon.”
“We can’t do this,” Hotch croaks, thoughts of her safety rattling through his mind like a freight train.
“Be there,” she commands, and the phone goes dead.
He doesn’t tell anyone where he’s going. Haley’s sister is only too happy to take Jack for the weekend, and he catches a flight out after work on Friday night. He arrives in Paris in the middle of the night, and sleeps for a few fitful hours before donning a warm coat and heading out into the hustle and bustle of the city.
He tucks his freezing hands into his pockets as he heads toward the river and the small cafe she had told him about – the place with the best pastries on earth, right next door to the best shoe shop on earth. The place with the red trim and red and white striped awning. He spots it easily and makes his way inside, stopping at the counter, heart pounding in his chest.
He orders an espresso and a pastry, and carries the food over to a small table in the corner. He sips the coffee and looks around as furtively as he can, trying to spot her. His heart sinks as he realises she isn’t there.
He waits an hour (it seems like forever), ordering two more coffees and another chocolate pastry before finally giving up and heading back out into the cold, head down low, shoulders slumped. The cold wind blows across his face and musses up his hair, and he thinks that right now, he hates Paris more than anywhere in the world.
He makes it back to the hotel and goes straight to the bar, ordering a glass of scotch and downing it quickly. The bartender raises an eyebrow at him and wordlessly pours him another, and Hotch lifts the glass to his lips as someone slides into the seat beside him.
Dirty blonde hair flashes into his vision, and a slender hand curls over his arm. “J'aurais aimé que tu sois là.”
He recognises her voice instantly, and turns to gaze at her – same profile, same dark eyes, same smirking, sultry expression. Her hand squeezes his arm lightly, and the bartender places the glass of scotch in front of her.
“Bonjour,” she murmurs to Hotch, arching an eyebrow at him. “Est-ce que tu aimes ton sejour?”
“You can cool it with the French now, don’t you think?” he replies, a small smile playing on his lips.
“Est-ce que tu ne parles pas français?”
Hotch merely raises an eyebrow at her. “You said you’d be there at noon.”
“Oui, but I was detained,” she says sweetly, sipping the glass of scotch delicately.
“Detained? Were you being followed?” He’s instantly on alert, eyes flicking around the darkened bar.
“Non monsieur,” she chuckles at him.
“Are you sure?”
She narrows her eyes. “Oui. Very sure.”
Twenty minutes later and they are in his hotel room, the blonde wig sitting on the vanity in the bathroom. She combs her fingers through her hair and flips it over her head, grinning at him wickedly.
He leans back on the bed, smiling sadly at her. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too,” she murmurs, resting her hands on his shoulders and gazing at him intensely. “How close are you to finding Doyle?”
“Closer every day,” he says tightly. “Anything for you to come home.”
Her dark red lips curve into a smile, and she leans forward, pecking a delicate kiss to his mouth. “By home you mean back to Washington?”
He pulls away from her, resting his hands on her hips. “By home I mean with me, and Jack.”
A wistful expression crosses her face. “How is he?”
“Getting older every day.”
“And the team?”
“Coping, just barely sometimes.”
Her eyes darken. “I’m so sorry, Aaron. This is all my fault.”
“You didn’t know he would escape. It is not your fault,” he says firmly, rising to his full height and pulling her against him tightly, breathing in the scent of her hair.
She sighs deeply, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. “Je regrette tout.”
Hotch tilts her face up, gazing into her eyes. “Non, je ne regrette rien, Emily. Nothing.” He slides his hands down her back and lifts her into his arms, kissing her hungrily. Her fingers tangle in his hair as her legs wrap around his waist, and they fall backwards onto the bed. She’s already undressing him, hands busily undoing buttons and yanking his clothes off, and she gasps as he pulls her dress over her head and flings it across the room.
He reverses their positions suddenly, and she’s lying on her back, hands gripping the comforter as he kisses a line down her body. His hand traces the scar on her belly and his lips press against it once, and he looks up at her darkly. “We’re matching now, you know?”
She runs her hands through his hair. “A matching set, almost.”
The scars on his body have faded somewhat, but hers is fresh, and he kisses it again before dipping down between her legs. She’s moaning and gasping, her body feels like it’s a livewire, every nerve tingling, and her vision goes dark when she comes, his name on her lips.
It’s still dark outside when a noise awakens him, and he sits up in bed quickly. “Emily?”
She’s adjusting the wig in the mirror, and turns to look at him. “Hi.”
“Is everything okay?”
She shrugged, straightening the wig and wrapping a scarf around her hair. “I have to get going. My train leaves at six.”
“Where are you going?”
“I can’t tell you that, chéri.” She leans in close to the mirror, carefully applying her lipstick.
Hotch runs a hand through his hair, throwing the covers off and padding over to her. “We shouldn’t have done this,” he says quietly, slipping his hands around her waist and resting his head on her shoulder.
She wriggles against him, teasing, and says throatily, “But baby, I had an itch that needed scratching.”
He merely pulls her tighter, hugging her possessively.
“Aaron,” she says, dropping the tube of lipstick in her purse and gazing at his reflection in the mirror. “You’ll get him, and I’ll come back. I promise.”
“I know.” He drops a kiss to her shoulder. “I’ll never stop trying to find him.”
She turns in his arms, cupping his face with her hands. “That’s why I trusted you with this. I know if anyone can keep me safe, it’s you.”
He nods once, resolute. “Send me a message every now and then, okay?”
Emily grins at him and kisses him long and hard, trying to savour every moment. She finally pulls away, reluctantly, wiping at the lipstick on his face with her hand and picking up her coat and bag.
Hotch watches unhappily as she steps toward the door, turning back to gaze at him earnestly. “Je t'aime, Aaron.”
“I love you too, Emily,” he replies quietly, and she smiles sadly at him as she opens the door and steps out into the hallway.
The door closes, and he’s alone again.
The fanfiction archive of woodchoc_magnum
- "Regret", Hotch/Prentiss, R