eyesontheskyline - Tumblr blog

eyesontheskyline · 2 days

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Okay I speed read this when I should've already been asleep so here's my reminder to go back and reread because it was delightful, and also you should read too, and we should all leave nice comments.

I'II make a cup of coffee (with the right amount of sugar)

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5 ways Emily takes her coffee, and the way she likes it best

He’s gotten used to the silence with her, deep and thick and in no hurry to be broken, but lately he’s been noticing things. Things like the shape of her lips and the deep brown of her eyes and the dimples that appear in her cheeks when she laughs with Morgan, lightly teases Reid.

Things that are inconvenient, to say the least.

(Or, 5 cups of coffee bringing Aaron and Emily closer)

Word count: 10.4k

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1) Black and bitter

Emily had always been an avid drinker of coffee. It saved her in her college days, the bitterness of a dark roast digging into her teeth and chasing away her lasting hangovers enough for her to cram for her exams. She doesn’t drink it black anymore since her discovery of Splenda, but there are some times when she needs the bitterness; hangovers, and the dead of night when she knows sleeping is useless after a case.

Right now the latter calls her to the kitchenette in the BAU.

It’s mechanical, the way she waits for the coffee to brew and how she pours it into her mug with stiff, tired movements. She’s frowning down at it as she takes it back to her desk, not needing to look up to know her way because these days she’s here more than in her own home.

The case still swirls around in the crevices of her brain, creeping up on her like smoke. It slowly fills every corner of her head until all she can think about is the devastation on Mary’s face when they gave her the news, the way her husband had turned ashy white and gripped her to keep her from falling down, tears streaming down his frozen face before he could blink.

Emily shuts her eyes as she sits down, another rush of something climbing up her throat; guilt at her failure to stop another child being put in the ground, anger at the unsub, at herself, at her whole team and the uselessness of their profiling when it comes too late.

It all settles there like a lump. She blinks rapidly as she tries to swallow it down, but it’s enormous, clogging up her airways and choking her. Emily brings her coffee up to her lips. The bitterness somehow untangles the knot, shrinks the lump just a little so she can breathe, so she tips more of it back until she can feel it sloshing around in her empty stomach. She tries to focus on the way her tongue burns, her throat raw from the heat of the coffee, and blinks away the blurriness she tells herself is from the sting.

It’s not the first case to hit her this hard. It probably won’t be the last. But no matter how many times she does this, it never feels like routine. She’s thrown back every time by how hard it hits her, how long it takes to carefully pack it all into boxes and store them away. It’s painstaking, exhausting, and she can’t find energy for the boxes tonight, can’t tell herself it doesn’t hurt like hell, so she’s sticking to the next option—working herself to death.

This is familiar.

She turns on her computer, starts diligently filling out her reports. But the sound of Mary’s sobs still echoes as she holds her pen, the pictures of the children they hung on the whiteboard clear as day in her mind, as if they were laying right in front of her instead of the report she’s trying to fill out.

Coffee was a bad idea, she thinks as her hand starts to tremble, her body buzzing with something restless. The hard wood of her desk is unforgiving beneath her elbows, the edge of it digging into the flesh of her stomach until she feels the pressure on her ribs. The rigid back of her chair doesn’t give when she leans back against it and her throat suddenly closes up. Emily swallows and feels gravel in her throat, her heart jumping when she realizes she can’t breathe.

She abruptly stands up, her heart palpitating, and shoves away from her desk, computer still on, coffee mug growing cold.

She finds her feet carrying her to the shooting range. The building is silent as she makes her way to the range, no one there but her and the fluorescent lights lighting the hallways. Emily passes the gym and falters, a figure in the corner of her eye making her halt and walk back.

Hotch.

His white shirt is damp with sweat as he attacks a punching bag, hair shaken loose and falling into his forehead. The sound of the violent thuds of his fists against the bag sends her feet moving into the gym, almost without feeling it.

“Think you could give that a break?”

He startles and turns around.

Her voice is flat, almost bored, but when his eyes travel to her face he sees her demeanor is anything but. Shoulders tense, risen up to her ears, mouth tight and drawn. He briefly feels ice in his veins when her eyes meet his—wild, shining with something more than the fluorescent lights overhead.

Hotch feels a sudden need to avert his eyes from her. He knows he’s not supposed to see this; this is always carefully swept away, tucked beneath wry smiles and deliberately blank gazes. It’s been a year and yet she never cracks, never breaks, is always steady when the rest of them are shaky, but this case seems to have dug its claws deep into her.

Her form is already defensive—feet shoulder width apart, left in front of the right, her shoulders hunched and her hands in fists by her side. She tilts her chin in question; he knows what she’s asking for. He nods.

She’s gone to the changing rooms by the time he stills the bag and takes off his gloves, his harsh breaths echoing loudly in the deserted gym, his heart racing a mile a minute. He hears it rush in his ears, so loud he almost doesn’t hear her come back, her footsteps thudding quietly against the floor.

He follows her to the mats on the far side of the gym, feeling a swirl of concern when she turns to face him, her eyes avoiding his. Her skin is almost sickly against the stark black of her gym clothes and the harsh lighting above them. He barely nods before she lunges at him.

Hotch side steps quickly, just barely avoiding a fist to the ribs. He retaliates and tries to match her pace, but she’s too fast, darting in front of him in a blur of white and black. She ducks to avoid his punch, bounces back on the balls of her feet and tries to ram her elbow into his stomach. Her breaths echo loudly as she starts backing him against the wall, her eyes eerily glassy. She doesn’t even see Hotch anymore; he has the same hard, shadowed line of the unsub’s jaw and she’s back in the interrogation room, mouth tight as he tapped his fingers on the table, his hands cuffed together as he leered at her.

Hotch’s knee finds its mark in her stomach.

Emily grunts and he falters. “Are you okay?” He pants as she bends over, the sharp edges of her shoulder blades poking through the stretchy material of her shirt. “We can stop—”

“I’m fine,” she straightens and raises her fists up to her cheeks again. He doesn’t get the chance to ask again before she lunges at him again. But her movements are too frantic, thoughtless. She throws punches recklessly, not caring where they land or what they hit. They don’t hit anything but air, and when Hotch catches her fist in his palm, halting her exhausted arm, she wants to choke out a sob.

She lets out a huff of air instead, tries to pull her hand free. Hotch holds it tighter and waits until her aggravated gaze meet his. “Emily.” He says quietly. She stills. Loud exhales escape through her parted lips, loud and echoing, making her shoulders heave. “There was nothing we could’ve done.”

Emily tugs her hand out of his grip. Why are you here then? She wants to bite out, the too calm look in his eyes making her feel frazzled, out of control. The blood runs hot in her veins, rushes loudly in her ears and makes her skin itch. She almost forgets herself, almost says something scathing and definitely involving his son, but then she sees it.

His own mask slips, just a little. Emily’s eyes suddenly see the rapid beating of his pulse and the tense corner of his mouth, the blankness of his gaze hiding a deep roiling pain just underneath.

“Why aren’t you home?” She asks instead.

Oh, a multitude of reasons; a house that’s no longer his, a stiff hotel bed, his son miles away.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He says shortly. “You should try, though.”

His eyes are too piercing. Her skin prickles and she drops her gaze, fixing it instead on the quick rise and fall of his chest. His skin is damp, his collar a little transparent, and she finds herself dropping her gaze from that, too.

She’s also seeing something she’s not supposed to see.

Emily nods, even as she knows she’ll toss and turn the remainder of the night. “Yeah. Night,” she finally meets his eyes again. Hotch gives her a small nod and she walks back to the changing rooms, holding her shoulders stiffly as her vision begins to blur.

She goes back to her dark apartment and he goes to his bare hotel room, both of them lying awake after cold showers, blank eyes fixed on somehow identical ceilings. There is no acknowledgment in their gazes the next morning, no nod to their late night or concerned eyes lingering over purplish dark circles.

But after that, almost imperceptibly, things begin to shift.

2) With a dash of cinnamon

She’s always loved fall. To her it was freedom; going away to college, to boarding school, far away from the watchful eyes of her mother, where she could finally let go without looking over her shoulder.

It’s her favorite time of year—when the weather starts to turn, when golden leaves drop to the ground and dry up so she can crunch them beneath her heeled boots. She’d crack the window open and stick her head out from early September, impatiently waiting for the crisp breeze to gently run its fingers through her hair, her eyes peeled for any hint of yellowing leaves.

Fall is sweaters, books, and cinnamon coffee. Chai lattes and windswept leaves that she crushes beneath the wheels of her car on the way to work, the windows down and her cheeks flushed from the slap of the wind. The arrival of September always sends a rush through her veins, the thought of golden light and golden leaves pulling her out of bed more effectively than any cup of coffee.

And that is proven when her alarm starts to blare obnoxiously.

Emily groans and reaches blindly with her hand to shut it off, only cracking one eye open to glare at the offending machinery.

Her gaze is drawn from the clock when she spots yellow and orange leaves hanging from a branch through her window, fluttering precariously in the breeze. She gasps lightly as the familiar excitement rushes through her veins, the blurriness in her eyes blinked away as the leaves wave at her cheerily.

Finally.

She grins and throws the covers back, disturbing a sleeping Sergio, and heads to the kitchen. She cracks the window open and reaches for her jar of cinnamon, scooping half a teaspoon into her coffee mug as she hums, her body moving lazily to the rustle of leaves outside.

Cinnamon coffee has been a favorite of hers for years. It’s something she’d been inspired to try after living a long while in the Middle East, Arab countries’ generous use of spices getting to her slowly but surely.

There wasn’t much of a winter in the hot deserts of Saudi Arabia, but there was spiced coffee and roadside tea with mint and warm, soothing karak on the beach. They put cloves and cardamom in their lightly roasted coffee, serve them in small cups that she would take in curious palms, staring at the golden color in wonder. She’d tried it with saffron and cinnamon, cloves and cardamom, had potfuls of tea and cups of coffee sitting in front of a fireplace that burned smoke almost as hot as the weather.

One day, feeling homesick for a place she’d never belonged to, she hesitantly sprinkled cinnamon into her Americano as crisp leaves floated down the sidewalk. She’d put it to her lips and taken a cautious sip, surprise lighting up her eyes when it tasted a hint like the coffee she drank back then, not exact but something parallel to it; the warmth. She had reached for the cinnamon again and accidentally dumped too much of it in her excitement. (It had been quite a spicy drink, but after a little more trial and error she finally got the measurement right—half a teaspoon sweetens the coffee, brings out a warmth from within the beans without making it too spicy).

Cinnamon coffee became a staple ever since, one she indulged in especially during fall, for when she’d need a little extra warmth while cradling a book in her hands, the window open and rustling her worn pages.

(Occasionally, when she’d have the spices for it, she’d make herself some karak tea. It was easier to replicate than the coffee—she didn’t know where to get the beans—and once in a blue moon she’d actually have saffron and cardamom on hand. When she doesn’t, she indulges in a chai tea latte—yes, she knows it’s tea tea. It’s a little different, but it does the trick).

Today, though, she knows without searching that her cabinets are mostly empty, her tea bags and cardamom long gone. It’s been ages since she’s had proper spices at home but the cinnamon still remains, so she starts preparing her coffee and makes a note to stock up on the other spices.

She takes small sips from her coffee on the way to work, trying to make it last as she drives through a slowly goldening Virginia, her windows lowered and the wind ruffling her hair. She’s first in the roundtable room apart from Hotch—proof that snoozing her alarm every day does indeed make a notable difference—and she slips into the seat next to him.

She brings with her a warm whoosh of air as she settles into the chair, one smelling of coffee beans and sweet, floral perfume. He breathes it in as he looks up from the file spread open in front of him, a coffee mug already steaming at his elbow.

“Morning,” Emily chirps. She gives him a bright smile, all soft dimples and rosy cheeks and warm brown eyes. He feels a strange pinch in his chest.

Hotch nods back, forces the words through his throat, “Morning.”

She sets her coffee down next to his and reaches over to take a file from the stack in the center of the table. “Just consults for today?” She asks as she flips through one. Her short hair falls against her cheek and she tucks it away absently, pale fingers hooking through brown waves and fitting them behind her ear. It looks…soft, fluffed up and a little messy, as if something other than her fingers was playing with it.

Belatedly, he realizes he’s staring.

“Should be.” Hotch murmurs and looks back down at his own case file. He’s not registering any of the words, all of them floating around as Emily breathes quietly next to him. He’s gotten used to the silence with her, deep and thick and in no hurry to be broken, but lately he’s been noticing things. Things like the shape of her lips and the deep brown of her eyes and the dimples that appear in her cheeks when she laughs with Morgan, lightly teases Reid.

Things that are inconvenient, to say the least.

Her perfume is thick in his lungs as he reaches blindly for his coffee and takes a sip to ease the unusual dryness in his throat, not paying any mind to the strange heaviness of the mug but pausing at the unusual sweetness that hits his tongue.

And…cinnamon?

Hotch looks up to find Emily’s mug in his hand, his own still next to his file on the table. He freezes slightly as his grip tightens on it. His eyes slide to her and he sees her head bent over the file in her lap, silently hoping she wouldn't notice his slip up.

He’s not so lucky.

The movement catches her eye and she turns to him. Her eyes widen the slightest bit and her lips immediately twist in wry amusement as she closes her file.

“That’s mine.” Her tone is lightly teasing, the corner of her lip pinched in a way that tells him she’s biting the inside of her cheek to keep a laugh at bay. He feels his body start to heat, his skin growing warm at the lighthearted side of her he’s usually not privy to.

Emily watches curiously as the tips of his ears start to grow red. Her smile widens when he blinks at her, still holding on to her mug, the taste of her coffee rampant on his lips. So he does get flustered, she muses silently, freezing the rare image in her head and raising her brows at him when he continues holding her coffee hostage.

“Right.” Hotch clears his throat and sets it down on the table. She loops her fingers through the handle before he fully lets go, her hand lightly ghosting over his as she grips the mug and carries it over to her side. His skin thrums.

“I’m sorry,” he says, as seriously as he’s ever said anything. Emily can see just the slightest hint of pink on his cheeks, the tips of his ears growing red at his slip up, but his eyes are steady on hers. The same color of a leaf she crushed beneath her heel this morning, she thinks distantly. “I can get you a fresh cup if you’d like.”

Emily waves him away; it’s nothing for her—she frequently splits sandwiches and cookies with Reid, takes sips of JJ and Garcia’s coffees and allows them to drink from hers. She casually picks trail mix from Reid’s cupped hands and bites off the edges of Morgan’s protein bars, her hands reaching for their treats as easy as breathing. This kind of intimacy is foreign for him, something he doesn’t allow himself with the others, something they don’t dare try with him even though he’s never expressed dislike for it, and suddenly he feels how boldly the line is drawn between them and him.

For a small, delirious moment he’s glad he’s broken the barrier, even accidentally.

“It’s alright, Hotch. I don’t have the special ingredient to remake this here anyway,” she grins at him. Another show of dimples, the right one deeper than the left. Her eyes crinkle at the corners, unusually bright for so early in the morning, and he wonders why that is.

It’s strange that one of their few conversations not involving work is about coffee. But he can’t help but ask. “Special ingredient?” Hotch echoes, as if he can’t still taste the cinnamon digging into his teeth. He runs his tongue over his molars and the flavor blooms in his mouth, as if he’d just taken a bite of Jack’s favorite cinnamon rolls.

“Cinnamon,” Emily confirms cheerfully.

Why? He finds himself wanting to ask as JJ walks in with Reid. Emily smiles at them and she’s quickly swept away in a sea of good morning’s and how are you’s, Hotch and his coffee thievery long forgotten as they chat. He drops his gaze back to the file in front of him, trying not to pay attention to the low clink of Emily’s mug when she periodically lifts it off the table and sets it down.

The taste of it lingers on his tongue throughout the day. Cinnamon fits its way between his teeth and stupidly, deliriously, he starts to wonder if Emily’s heart shaped lips taste the same as his.

He immediately downs the bitterest coffee after that thought, trying desperately to mask the unusual taste of cinnamon coffee. But the warmth still peeks through.

Two weeks later, when Emily drops off a file on his desk and sees a coffee cup, Aaron scrawled on it with “a dash of cinnamon” and a hastily drawn smiley face next to his name, she pretends not to feel the thrill slowly spreading through her chest.

3) Vanilla syrup and honey (yes, both—she’s got a sweet tooth)

She knows it’s going to be a good day when she opens her eyes to bright sunlight, her alarm still off and the deep silence of her apartment unbroken.

Emily sighs and stretches, blinking sleep from her eyes as her fingertips sink into soft fur on the side of her bed. She smiles sleepily. “Hi Serg.”

Sergio’s ears perk sideways at the sound of her voice. He stretches lazily and makes his way toward her, a stark ball of black against her white sheets, green eyes slowly blinking at her before he bumps his cheek against hers in a forceful show of affection. Emily laughs lightly and brings him into her chest, feeling his loud purrs reverberate through her body.

She kisses his furry forehead. “I think today’s gonna be a good day,” she whispers to him, her fingers absently combing through his fur. Tonight her dreams had been void of icy blue eyes and lilting Irish accents. She had them occasionally but these few days they’d increased in frequency, as they often do this time of every year, the looming reminder that it’ll soon be 5 years since she got out making them surface more than usual.

But today Ian was nowhere to be found.

Emily breathes in the scent of Sergio’s fur, reminding herself that he’s long gone, tossed in a prison somewhere with no chance of escape. Her body is relaxed after uninterrupted sleep, warm beneath her safe covers, and she opens her eyes to meet Sergio’s. “Good day today,” she says quietly and boops his nose, smiling at the soft velvet feel of it. “And you know what we do on good days.”

****

Emily takes a sip of her latte as she sets her purse down, the vanilla and honey swirling through the coffee making her shoulders lift. It’s become a trained response; her body relaxing at the mix of flavors on her tongue, endorphins running through her blood the moment she tips the coffee back. Briefly she tastes the morning she got a call from Erin Strauss, the afternoon she picked Sergio up from the shelter, her arms laden with a cat carrier and more treats than he could eat in a lifetime.

Vanilla lattes were special. The tradition started when she walked into a cafe just after she’d gotten a letter from Interpol, eager to start a new life and escape the cage that was home. She’d smiled at the pretty barista, dimples flashing as she asked her what her favorite drink was before ordering just that. It was unexpectedly good, the type of ‘fancy’ she’d always strayed from ordering, sticking instead to her Americano’s and frozen coffees. She still thinks of the barista sometimes, gives her a silent thanks when her body flushes delightfully warm from the heat of the coffee.

Emily swirls another sip in her mouth as she sits down at her desk, looking over the divider at Reid and mumbling, “Morning.”

She smiles as he looks up from the book in his hands, “Good morning.”

She’s just turning on her computer when Hotch’s voice reaches them. “Don’t get comfortable,” he calls out as he walks through the bullpen to the stairs. “We’ve got a local case, metro needs us.”

Emily sighs.

Her coffee sits in the cup holder as she reads through her case file. Emily tries not to think too much about the fact that it’s growing cold, the honey and vanilla scented steam permeating the air in the car, covering her and Hotch with the scent of blonde roast.

By the time they leave the ME her coffee has long since cooled. Emily bites back a sigh when she picks it up, no more heat traveling through the cup to her hand. Hotch drives off and she turns to him, “The unsub had three different MO’s, but nothing about the murders suggests he’s disorganized,” she begins and tips her lukewarm coffee back.

Hotch nods. “The kills weren’t hesitant, he knows what he’s doing and has probably—”

A figure darting across the street catches her eye. Emily gasps, “Hotch, careful.”

He steps on the breaks just in time to avoid hitting the jaywalker crossing the street, the wheels screeching loudly against the asphalt. The car jerks and Emily grunts as she’s thrown forward, the air forced from her lungs as the seat belt holds her body back.

“Asshole,” Hotch mutters under his breath and glares after the man as he lays on the horn, the obnoxious noise masking the sound of sloshing liquid next to him.

He hears a gasp. Then—

“Motherfucker.” Emily inhales sharply at the shock of liquid on her clothes, the coffee immediately soaking through her shirt and making it stick to her skin. Hotch’s eyes flick to her and widen at the sight of her drenched clothes, her fingertips dripping coffee and the cup in her hand soaked through. Emily closes her eyes.

No no no. This can’t be happening.

But she can feel the coffee dripping down her wrist and onto her soaked shirt, the empty paper cup in her hand collapsing under her tight grip. The car jerks again and she opens her eyes, finding themselves parked on the side of the road.

Through the shock of it all, she finally finds her voice. “What the hell, Hotch?” She grits her teeth. Her voice comes out snappier than she intended, harsh and clipped.

He’s your boss, he’s your boss, he’s your boss, she mentally chants, willing herself to unlock her tight jaw. Emily tries to swallow her irritation as she looks down at her clothes and avoids his gaze. Her powder blue shirt has gone half transparent, clinging to her skin and doing nothing to hide the dark lace of her bra, which is also soaked through. The tops of her thighs are sticky with coffee, the belt across her chest stained brown. Emily bites back a curse and moves to lift the sticky shirt off her skin.

Belatedly, she realizes she’s still holding the empty cup. She slams it in the cup holder with a grimace, the marker of her order half melted into black streaks, the smiley face the barista drew for her warped and inky.

The sound seems to snap Hotch out of his own shock.

“I’m so sorry. Fuck,” he mutters as the stain on her shirt grows larger. “Here,” he hurriedly takes his jacket off and holds it out for her, his eyes firmly on her face.

Emily shakes her head, “It’s alright.” Her lips twist in displeasure as she awkwardly pinches her shirt between her fingers and lifts it off her chest, the stark black of her bra no longer pressing against the fabric. She can feel her fingertips soaking through with sugary coffee, the liquid gathering on her skin as she grips her shirt. It squelches between her fingers and she barely holds back a gag.

Just take the damn jacket, Emily—

“I insist, Emily.”

She turns her gaze to him and finds his brows knotted together, frowning as if he was the one who personally took her coffee and dumped it all over her. It’s kind of…endearing, his eyes slightly frazzled and the corner of his lips turned down in a grimace. Her anger gets trapped in her throat and she swallows it down, forcing it away as she gathers more of her shirt in her hands, lifting it off her skin.

“Please,” he says, extending his hand and half hanging the jacket over her lap.

“It’ll get stained too,” Emily protests as she finally takes it from him, holding it above her shirt to keep the coffee from soaking through it.

“That’s fine,” Hotch insists. He stares at her until she caves and puts it on, holding the sides of it closed over her shirt. The way her wet button down clings to her skin, cold and sticky, distracts her from the warm scent of his jacket.

But only a little.

It’s woodsy and clean—the cologne she’s gotten a whiff of when he stands too close or brushes past her in a hurry, his body accidentally touching hers. There’s also something…powdery underneath, familiar and soft, like laundry detergent. She grips the sleeves, feeling the softness of it beneath the pads of her fingertips.

Emily is suddenly aware of how large the jacket is, how it almost reaches her knees, the sleeves swarming her coffee stained fingers. She turns her gaze to her hands on her lap, cheeks growing warm, unsure of how to look at her boss while wearing his jacket.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, briefly feeling guilt as coffee soaks through the soft, probably expensive fibers of the jacket.

“Sure,” he mumbles, turning his gaze to look out of the windshield, his brain going hazy at the way it drowns her, the shoulders loose with extra fabric and the seams extending halfway down her arm. He barely hears her over his pounding heart.

“Can you stop by my apartment? I’d like to change.” Her nose scrunches up in disgust before she can stop herself, the sticky sweetness of her latte clinging uncomfortably to her skin.

Hotch nods, “Yeah, yeah, sure. We’ve got time before the others need us.” He says quickly and pulls out onto the road. “I really am so sorry, Emily,” he apologizes again, his eyes firmly on the road. He can’t explain it, but something about her anger being directed at him makes his skin itch uncomfortably.

She can feel herself start to smile. Emily turns her head to the window and purses her lips, forcing them not to curl upward. “It’s alright, Hotch. It wasn’t your fault.”

It kind of was, but…

“You weren’t the one jaywalking,” she says out loud, mostly for his benefit.

He doesn’t answer, but his grip on the steering wheel loosens.

He parks outside her building a sticky eternity later and she jumps out of the car, mumbling a quick, “Won’t take long,” as she goes.

She takes extra care to pick out a dark shirt after she quickly washes the coffee off her skin, ignoring Sergio as he curls around her ankles. “Not a good day, Serg,” Emily mutters as she wipes Hotch’s jacket with a wet towel. She sniffs it hesitantly, grimacing at the scent of coffee that lingers. “Just great.”

There’s not much she can do about it, and she climbs back into the car with it gingerly tucked over her arm. “I can get it dry cleaned for you,” she says awkwardly as she hands it back.

“Don’t worry about it.” He waves her away and throws it in the backseat. The movement draws her attention to the exposed skin of his forearms. His sleeves are rolled up neatly, the outline of bulging veins visible under his skin and a dusting of dark, soft looking hair catching the sunlight streaming in through the windshield. Emily swallows.

She blames him for the fog in her brain that leaves her unfocused for most of the silent ride back. She only snaps out of it when the car stops and she looks out the window, expecting to see Quantico. Not the coffee shop she’d gotten her latte from this morning.

“What are we doing here?” Emily asks as he takes the key from the ignition.

“We’re getting you another coffee.” Hotch gets out of the car, leaving her in shock as he walks over to her door.

“Are you coming?” His voice is muffled through the glass of her window. Her eyes are wide, her mouth ever so slightly hanging open in surprise, and he has to fight hard to keep a smile from spreading across his face.

Emily scrambles to open the door, “Hotch this is ridiculous, get in.”

“I will get in,” he says evenly, “after we get you another coffee.”

“I don’t need another coffee,” she protests, feeling her face start to flush for some reason. Stupid vanilla latte. “The team’s waiting for us, can we just go?”

Hotch eyes her for a second. He completely ignores her last statement, “Well, I want a cup, Jack wouldn’t sleep last night. Are you still going to stay here?” His body is halfway tilted to the doors behind him but his eyes are firmly on hers, something…light in them that makes her stomach swoop.

He’s baiting her, she knows he is. But it’s coming from him. She’s bought treats for JJ before and had her return the favor a few times, poured Reid’s coffee alongside hers more than once. But she’s never done anything like that for Hotch, and she’s never seen him do that for anyone either.

An olive branch, and she wants to see what it leads to.

“No,” Emily mutters and steps next to him on the sidewalk. Hotch turns away before she can see the upward tilt of his lips, half in triumph and half in amusement as she grumbles something under her breath. He stifles his smile and opens the door for her, gesturing for her to walk through.

Stupid gentleman, Emily muses darkly when her stomach drops again, this time from the quick brush of her hand against his exposed forearm. She doesn’t see him take a quick breath, the scent of her freshly applied perfume stealing the air from his lungs.

He somehow gets his legs to move after her as she walks up to the counter and gives the barista a smile. “Hey Emily,” the girl chirps, and Emily gives her a smile back in greeting. “What can I get you?”

“Hi Angela. I’m not getting anything,” she turns and tilts her head towards Hotch, “but he is. What do you want, Hotch?”

He doesn’t skip a beat. “Can I have a vanilla latte with honey, please?” He says, ignoring the way Emily’s mouth drops open.

“Sure,” Angela replies as she taps on her screen. “What size?”

“What size?” Hotch turns to Emily. She gapes at him, her mind aching at the 180 between this person in front of her and her boss. His face is completely neutral, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to buy his subordinate a coffee—granted after he caused her to spill hers, but still.

“Uh,” her brain short circuits for a moment before she snaps back into it. “None.” She glares at him and turns to the barista, “Sorry, we’ll can-”

“Large, please,” Hotch cuts her off and looks over her shoulder at the display in front of them. Cookies, sandwiches, and muffins blink up at him. He spots a double chocolate chip. “And can I have a cookie as well?”

“Sure. And the order is for…” Angela looks at him expectantly.

“Emily.” He deadpans.

She laughs without meaning to. His own lips turn up at the sound of it, but it quickly dissipates when he takes out his wallet.

“Absolutely not,” Emily shoves her way in front of him, infinitely glad that no one is queueing behind them. “You’re not paying,” she says firmly as she digs into her pockets for change.

Angela watches the exchange with bewilderment, taking Hotch’s card over Emily’s shoulder with a confused smile. Emily finally takes out the money and turns to her, her shoulders slumping when she finds the receipt already printed, Hotch slipping his card back into his wallet.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she frowns at him as he takes the receipt and cookie, automatically following him into the pickup area. She doesn’t know why she’s resisting so hard; it’s coffee, hardly a three course meal, but even the slightest gesture from him feels huge.

Hotch shrugs and hands her the cookie. “I wanted to.”

Emily takes it reluctantly, wondering if he ordered the double chocolate chip simply out of coincidence or if he somehow knows it’s her favorite. He sighs at the furrow between her brows.

“You know, it’s not poisonous,” he says softly. She looks up and her frown fades as she shrugs. He did get her a coffee and a cookie, which now means she can return the favor.

“I guess not.” Emily concedes. Angela slides her coffee on the counter and leaves with a silent smile. Hotch picks it up and holds it out for her.

Another olive branch.

She takes it less hesitantly than she took the cookie, a small smile spreading on her lips as the warmth of it passes to her hand. Emily cups her hands over it, the cookie balancing precariously between her fingers. “Thank you, Hotch,” her voice is soft, her eyes as bright as they were the day he drank from her cinnamon coffee.

“You’re welcome,” he says sincerely. He’s not smiling, exactly, but there’s something softened about him; lighter. “And sorry for making you spill it in the first place.”

She waves him away as she takes a sip of the delightfully hot coffee. “Not your fault,” she repeats, stepping through the door when he opens it for her again. They get in the car and she tears open the cookie, sliding it out of its plastic packaging and breaking it in half.

Emily hands him a jagged crescent moon, “Sharing food is a sign of my forgiveness,” she says seriously, stopping him as he shakes his head. “Take this while you can.”

She gets the softest curve of dimples this time.

4) Making it into a mocha

This one was borne out of curiosity—and a lack of sweetener coupled with her utter unwillingness to drink it black.

The chocolate bar Penelope handed her is held between her teeth, the sweetness of it melting on her tongue as she rummages through the drawers for sugar.

Her secret stash is gone, and when she goes to search for Reid’s not-so-secret pile in the drawer next to the sink, she finds that depleted too.

“Dammit,” Emily garbles through the chocolate, slamming the drawer shut and frustratedly biting off a piece of the sweet treat in her hand.

She feels eyes on her and turns to find Hotch looking at her, brows raised in bewilderment.

Emily jumps slightly. When did he get here?

“Something wrong?” He ventures cautiously as he pours his own coffee. He hands her the pot when he’s done and Emily huffs as she takes it, “There’s no sugar. Of any kind. No Splenda, no creamer, no sweetener,” she lists off in a grumble as she pours her coffee, twisting her nose up at the bitter scent of it.

Hotch’s lips tilt upward in amusement. Emily doesn’t see it as she slides the pot back into the machine and looks down at her mug, contemplating the dark liquid with a frown. She turns to him and he wipes the smile off his face. “I don’t suppose you have a secret stash of your own?”

He shakes his head, not without regret. “No, sorry.”

She nods, as if expecting it, and something in him warms. He bites back another smile when she goes back to looking forlornly at her mug.

“You could always just…not,” he suggests, continuing when she looks back at him and tilts her head in confusion, “drink any coffee.” He clarifies.

Emily snorts. “No can do, unless you want those Lockport reports by the end of the week.”

Hotch sighs, “Emily we came back from that case like four days ago.” He finds his tone is not as sharp as it should be, his words nowhere near as reprimanding as he planned. Ever since he bought her the coffee she’d been subtly throwing treats at him, meeting his raised brows with a shrug of her shoulders, merely saying she’d bought extra on accident. She shares them with him in his office and on car rides, splitting chocolate bars and pastries and sandwiches.

Each time he feels a thrill, each time he waits for it to be the last time, a one and done, but she keeps coming back and he can’t stop her.

Emily grins and shrugs, frustration at her sugar-less coffee dissipating at the sight of his exasperated look. “Sorry, boss. You’ll have them by tonight. Hence,” she points to her mug, “my very necessary dose of caffeine.”

He hums and picks up his mug, about to turn and leave when he hears he mutter, “Wait a minute.”

He’s somewhat disappointed she wasn’t talking to him. Hotch watches as she appraises the chocolate bar in her hand, her eyes flitting between it and her mug before she shrugs, breaks off a piece of the chocolate, and promptly drops it into the coffee.

“Really?” The words slip from his mouth before he could stop them.

Emily doesn’t spare him a second glance as she grabs a spoon and stirs her now chocolate tainted coffee. “Can’t make it worse than it already is,” she reasons, taking a cautious sip of her concoction before humming, “that’s not too bad, actually. You ever heard of mocha, Hotch?” She turns to him this time, smiling significantly brighter as she meets his slightly appalled gaze.

He can’t help but think her eyes are just the same shade of the coffee in both their mugs. Dark lashes, dark irises, dark pupils; endless pools of brown that swallow him whole, shining bright with the thrill of discovery. His throat goes dry.

She turns away and snaps another piece of the chocolate before dropping it into her mug. Hotch realizes he still hadn’t answered.

“I have, but I must say I’ve never seen it prepared like that.” He takes a sip of his own cocoa-less coffee, grateful for the bitterness when he sees Emily stir another piece of chocolate into hers.

He shudders slightly. “Well, you’ve got your solution. You have until 5, Prentiss,” he calls out as he finally turns away, realizing he wasted a lot more than his allotted five minute break.

“Sure thing, boss.” He hears the smile in her voice, and suddenly he wishes he could’ve stayed a bit more.

****

Some weeks later

Hotch fights a yawn and steps through the curtain into the kitchenette. He almost bumps into Emily, their bodies taking up the entirety of the small space.

“Sorry,” he mutters as she shifts to the side, making room for him. She takes in the tired set of his shoulders and flashes him a small smile, “Want a cup?”

I can do it, he wants to say, but something about her in the warm lights of the jet makes him acquiesce. Hotch nods. “Sure. Thanks.”

Emily hums in reply. “You don’t take any sugar, do you?” She asks, her elbow knocking into his as she slides open the drawer. In the minuscule space between them, he can smell her perfume, something sweet and clinging to her skin. He breathes in, feels it settle in his lungs, and holds his breath for a beat before breathing out quietly, closing his eyes against the sudden fog in his brain.

The clink of the mug against the counter snaps him back to reality. Hotch moves back, leans against the far wall to give her some space. “No,” he says and she nods before pouring his coffee.

Her back is to him and he shouldn’t stare, he knows he shouldn’t—staring at Emily is dangerous. But he so rarely gets an opportunity where she’s unaware, her guard down and her sharp eyes focused on something that takes away her attention.

Hotch can’t stop his eyes from skipping over her, hungrily taking in the curve of her waist, the delicate slope of her neck meeting her shoulder, and the darkness of her hair against her shirt. Her shoulder blades pop out beneath the fabric as she moves lightly in the limited space, her elbows tucked in as she pours the coffee.

The rich scent of it blankets them, overpowers the scent of her perfume—something he’s not sure if he’s grateful for or not—and he moves back next to her to take his mug.

Coffee and Emily. That seems to be a regular combination these days.

“Thank you.” His voice is low as he picks it up, deep as the coffee she poured him. Hotch doesn’t notice the way she shivers as he takes a sip. He’s wide awake now, not a trace of exhaustion left in his body, only he doesn’t think it’s because of the mug in his hands.

“No problem,” Emily replies, her voice quieter too. She doesn’t look at him as she reaches into her pocket and takes out a red sachet, something that catches his eye before he tries to leave. He doesn’t read the name before she rips it open, but the brown powder and the sudden scent of chocolate makes it easy to guess what it is.

She pours her coffee over the hot chocolate powder and stirs, feeling the heat of his gaze on her and gripping her spoon tight to stop her fingers from shaking. He’s so close her elbow knocks against his again, the rough material of his jacket scratching against her soft shirt.

“Back at it with the mocha?” His voice is light, and when she looks up her body heats further at the smile on his face. The low lights above them cast shadows on his cheeks, making the slight indent of his dimples look much deeper.

“Mhm,” Emily smiles back. “But I’ve perfected my technique this time. I’ve tried cocoa powder, chocolate syrup, chocolate bars,” she arches her brow knowingly, her heart tripping when he chuckles lightly, a soft sound that echoes between their bodies.

Emily tears her eyes away from him with some difficulty. She turns back to her coffee, “Hot chocolate mix is the way to go,” she blows on it lightly before taking a sip, humming in satisfaction at the mix of flavors on her tongue.

“You’re missing out if you keep sticking to black, Hotch.” She says idly, not thinking too much of her words.

He nods, though. “Maybe I should try it someday.”

“Yeah,” she agrees as she takes another sip. Her eyes flit to his and she almost chokes when she sees his dark gaze. Emily swallows down the coffee hastily, burning her throat. “Wanna try?” She holds out the mug for him. The liquid shakes ever so slightly as her hand trembles, a mixture of caffeine and adrenaline making her heart jump in her chest.

“From your mug?” He asks, his voice as low and rich as the scent of coffee all around them. She can hear the blood rush in her ears, feeling distinctly that something between them is hanging by a precarious thread.

Emily shrugs jerkily, her eyes still set on his. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” Her lips tilt upward at the memory and his eyes drop to them. She stops breathing as Hotch sets down his mug, her eyes tracking his careful movements.

He turns to her. “I would like to try,” he takes a deep breath. “But not from your mug.”

Her pupils dilate.

“Is that okay?” He murmurs, breath caught in his throat, heart pounding wildly against his ribcage.

She would’ve laughed if his eyes weren’t so serious. “Yes.” Emily breathes.

She doesn’t get a chance to set her mug down. He’s there suddenly, closing the distance with his rough palms on her cheeks. She shivers as his fingertips slip into her hair. “Are you sure it’s okay?”

Emily huffs, “Goddamn it, Aaron—”

That’s what does it.

He’s sure this is what heaven tastes like; coffee, chocolate, and something distinctly Emily. Her perfume, coffee beans, the silkiness of her hair when he slides his hands into it. His senses go into overdrive as he drowns in her, feels her take a hand off her mug and slip it into his jacket. Her lips are plush between his own, soft, and when he feels them curving up into a smile he thinks his heart could give out.

He’s about to finally feel the curve of her waist when she shoves him back suddenly. His back hits the wall as she hastily tucks her hair behind her ear and steps through the curtains just as Morgan walks in, her lips a little swollen, her cheeks flushed a little too pink. She doesn’t spare him a glance as the curtains flutter shut.

Morgan sweeps his eyes over him. “You alright, Hotch?”

Hotch clears his throat, trying to lodge the taste of Emily off his tongue. He clenches his hand into a fist to stop himself from running his finger over his numb lips like a teenager.

“Fine.” He says, less stern than he wants, and shoves off the wall to reach the counter. “Just need some—” He slides open a drawer and takes out a yellow packet, wetting his lips as he rips it open and dumps it into his bitter coffee. “Splenda.”

He walks past the curtains and sits down on the couch, opposite Emily at the four seater table. She looks up at him from her case file, her lips drawing into a smile.

His heart may or may skips a few beats.

“How’s your coffee, Hotch?” She rests her elbow on the armrest and takes her chin in her palm, her tongue darting out to wet the corner of her lip. His eyes are drawn to the movement and she stifles a smile.

“Too sweet,” he mutters, tearing his gaze from her lips. His eyes meet hers and they sparkle; she looks positively proud of herself, her pinky idly running over her mouth, a poor attempt at masking a smirk.

“Shame.” She says softly, looking back down at her case file. Emily pretends not to feel his eyes on her, but she can’t pretend it doesn’t send heat racing through her veins.

It’s torture, tearing his gaze from her, but he’ll have more time to do it properly later.

They have unfinished business.

5) frozen (Frappe—not a frappuccino)

The warm air cools the back of her sweaty neck and ruffles the few strands escaping her ponytail as she walks with Aaron’s arm looped through hers, Jack running carelessly in front of them. She lays her head on his shoulder, wraps both hands around his arm, and sighs as the sun shines down on them.

Aaron stops walking and she does too, looking up to find him nodding encouragingly at Jack. The little boy bounds off to the swings and Emily fits her head under Aaron’s chin again, both of their gazes locked on the blonde head bobbing on the swing.

With the sun shining warming her skin, the intense blue of the sky above, and all the rushing noise of families in the park, Emily is suddenly reminded of Greece. She can hear the distant crash of waves on rocks, taste the potent bitterness of a frappe on her tongue.

She drank them constantly on the shores of Athens, popping out from the beach to grab a fresh one whenever her cup emptied. She loved the iciness of it, how she would run her cold tongue over her warm lips when she was done, her insides cold but her skin close to burning.

She looks up at Aaron now, still hugging his arm to her chest. His attention is on Jack, the line of his jaw sharp as he looks at him, so she stands on her tiptoes and presses her lips to it.

“Aaron,” she whispers into his warm skin. She feels his responding hum beneath her lips, his fingers squeezing around hers.

He leans back a little to look at her, bending his head down so his eyes meet hers. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

Emily smiles as butterflies flap their wings in her stomach. The nickname still gets her. “I want coffee,” she points to the cafe at the edge of the park.

Aaron’s brows raise into his hairline. “In this weather?” He asks in disbelief, looking at her like she’s crazy.

She rolls her eyes. As if he doesn’t wear fully tailored suits out in the sun in this weather. “Frozen coffee,” she clarifies. “A frappe.” She pops the p.

As they walk into the cafe, cold air skipping over her warm skin, she’s hit once again with the nostalgia, thinking of hot cobblestones beneath her sandals, the street markets bustling with jewelry and produce.

I’ll have to take them someday, she muses as she finally takes the freezing cup and brings the straw to her lips, tasting summer and salty beaches on her tongue. She hums happily as they walk out of the cafe and back into the sun, the slush of bitter coffee and ice freezing her throat.

Jack shuffles between her and Aaron, looking curiously at the frozen coffee in her hand. “Can I try, Emily?”

Emily smiles. “Sure, honey. You might not like it, though,” she warns as she passes her cup over to him. Jack takes a cautious sip and scrunches his nose immediately, his brows drawing together in a way that makes him look remarkably like Aaron.

Emily chuckles as he passes the cup back with a grimace. “It’s so…not sweet,” he shudders, looking up at them disgustedly.

Aaron smiles. “It’s called bitter, buddy,” he corrects as Jack shudders. “The opposite of sweet.”

Jack shrugs, “Whatever. Ice cream is better,” he says before bouncing off to the swings again, Aaron and Emily laughing after him.

Emily takes another sip of her drink, enjoying the crunch of wayward, unblended ice between her teeth. Her skin prickles with heat and she looks up to find Aaron staring at her.

Her heart trips. “Would you like to try?” She asks teasingly.

“I would, actually,” he muses as he steps closer to her, ignoring the cup in her hands and taking her face in his palms. Her eyes gleam as she bites her lip to hold back a smile.

This is familiar.

“But not from my cup?” Emily whispers, her cold cup pressing against Aaron’s shirt as he pulls her closer.

He grins, “Oh, definitely not.”

Her laugh is trapped between their lips. He tastes it on his tongue, tastes the bitterness of the beans and the coolness of the ice, her cocoa chapstick blending into the coffee. She slides her hand into his hair, her fingertips freezing against his scalp, and tugs lightly just before she pulls away.

Emily laughs as he chases her lips. She lets him give her a quick peck before turning her head, his lips catching her cheek instead as she wraps her arms around his waist. The condensation on her cup seeps through his shirt as he pulls her impossibly closer, and Emily is suddenly acutely aware of all the other people in the park. Her cheeks heat as her eyes skip over the families and children, a strange shyness rushing through her even when she sees other couples similarly entangled, no one giving her or Aaron the time of day.

“Stop,” she chides as he drops kisses on her jaw, shivering despite the heat. “We look like those gross people who suck each other’s faces off in public,” she wrinkles her nose in distaste.

Aaron smiles and leans back to look at her properly. He laughs at her disgusted expression, at odds with the way she’s holding on to him. “I guess we do,” he shrugs, strangely unbothered by it himself. “Do you really mind, though?”

No.

“Yes.” Her heart swells when his hand starts slipping off her waist. Emily places her own over his, firmly keeping it in place. “But I’ll make an exception for you,” she whispers and leans forward to kiss him softly, her lips tasting like coffee and sunshine.

He grins into the kiss, feeling love for her rush through his veins as she gently cups his jaw, keeps him close. He’s the one who pulls back this time, pressing his lips to her forehead as she wraps an arm around his waist. The condensation drips off her nails as she brings her frappe to her mouth again, heated for a different reason this time.

Aaron wraps his arm around her shoulders as they watch Jack, and she starts telling him about Greece.

+1 (The way she likes it best)

She’ll never admit it.

But he knows.

It was slow, but eventually he realized she almost never made her own coffee if he’d already poured himself a mug. She’d pick his coffee off the table, sprinkle sugar or cinnamon in it, and they’d pass the cup back and forth until it’s done. She claims it helps reduce both their caffeine intake, but really there’s something about the simple act of sharing that just gets her. It fills her with inexplicable warmth, knowing that his lips could have touched the same area of the rim as hers, that she’ll always have him to finish off her coffee if she’s too full.

It’s strange that she loves it so much; drinking from Aaron’s cup and placing her lips directly over where he placed his, leaving her lipstick mark on the cup and making him blush. She winked at him the first time it happened, making an offhanded comment about how the coffee suddenly tasted sweeter that made his cheeks flush even more.

He doesn’t really drink his coffee black any more. She’d scrunch her nose when she’d pick up his cup and find it black, drinking from it reluctantly despite his insistence that he could get her a mug of her own. So he started adding sugar for her—among other things, occasionally. He’s lost his immunity to the bitterness of black coffee, his taste buds now accustomed to sugar, creamer, cinnamon.

His cup becomes their cup—her cup is usually her cup, but he’d also gotten used to it, stealing a few sips from her more often than not—and he bought a bowl-like mug for them to drink from on their lazy days in. Emily loves it, loves the way they share it as he makes them pancakes or when they sit down for a movie with Jack.

She still packs her own travel mug to work, pours them separate cups when they’re scattered in precincts all over the country, but in their home, in Dave’s living room, it’s always one mug for the both of them, passing from his hand to hers.

Truth be told, Aaron loves it just as much as she does. He once envied her easiness to casually share anything and everything with the others from food to drinks, envied the closeness they had with her and resented the harsh line drawn between them and him. But she’s thoroughly wiped it away, smeared it with gentle fingers until it disappeared, and now she shares everything with him out of everyone. Her coffee, her cinnamon rolls, her love.

“Morning,” he smiles at her as she appears in the kitchen, hair a mess and his shirt rumpled from sleep. She rubs her eyes and walks slowly over to him on the island chair, holding on to his forearms as she steps on the rungs and slides onto his lap. Aaron wraps his arms around her and secures her as she fits her legs between his, turns to place her face in the hollow of his neck.

“Come back to bed,” she mumbles, a demand if her words hadn’t been warped around a yawn.

Aaron smiles. “I’m not sleepy,” he kisses her forehead and takes a hand off her waist to grab his coffee.

Emily huffs and takes it from him when he’s done drinking. “It’s not for you, it’s for me. I need to cuddle with something warm,” she slurs and takes a sip. Immediately she scrunches her nose. “Needs sugar,” she mutters and moves out of his hold to grab a packet of Splenda

Aaron laughs, “No it doesn’t.” He watches amusedly as she stumbles around the kitchen, sleepy feet tripping over nothing. She finally grabs a Splenda packet and turns to him with half closed eyes.

“Yes, it does.” She insists and tears open the packet, pouring it into the coffee and taking another sip without even stirring.

Aaron shakes his head as he slides off the chair. He grabs a spoon and gently bumps her out of the way to stir the coffee. “You know, I could always make you a cup,” he suggests gently, kissing her forehead to tell her he’s not really upset about it.

Emily shrugs. “Tastes better when you drink with me.” She murmurs, grabbing the mug and turning on her heel, only slightly swaying as she takes it back to their room. Aaron grins after her and immediately follows, finding her already in bed and drowsily blinking up at him as she drinks, even though he was only seconds behind.

“Tastes better, you say?” He smiles as he slides in next to her.

Emily groans lightly, “You weren’t supposed to hear that. Here,” she hands the coffee back and flops down on her pillow, blinking at him sleepily as he sets the mug on his nightstand and brings her properly into his arms. Emily hums into his chest as he runs his fingers through her hair, the soothing motion forcing her eyes closed. She fits her legs between his, burrows her face in his neck until she’s drowning in him, every possible inch of his warm skin touching hers.

It only takes minutes before she’s asleep. Aaron kisses her forehead and breathes her in, her unique, familiar scent mixing with the steam rising from the coffee. The two are properly intertwined now; coffee and Emily, Emily and coffee.

He watches her lashes flutter as she dreams, silently marveling at the way something so simple, common, could’ve pushed him toward someone like her; bright and bold and the best thing in his life.

#fic from others #i literally stayed up so late to read this i'm delirious #who am i talking to?#hotchniss

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